


Threads

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Red String of Fate, Romance, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7969540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite being 38 years old, Hanzo has never met his soulmate. He's learned to ignore the red string on his left hand for the last ten years, knowing he is destined to remain alone as he atones for his mistakes. It is for the best. </p><p>Jesse McCree, however, isn't one to take that lying down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> And here we go, the requisite "red string of fate" fic for a burgeoning new fandom.
> 
> Been awhile since I did a multi-chapter project, so we'll see how this goes!

Hanzo spends the flight from Japan to Gibraltar staring at his left hand.

The red string on his little finger has pointed in a southwestern direction for three weeks now, unwavering since he first touched down in Japan. He follows it with his eyes, a straight line that points forward and down now, disappearing somewhere through the floor of the plane. The angle slowly closes over the course of his flight, as though he is growing closer to the other end of the tether, separated more by his altitude than distance. Impossible to tell right now if he will meet his soulmate in Gibraltar, or just pass over them on the way.

It does not matter, he supposes. His soulmate will not accept him, and he does not intend to try or to allow them. He has spent the last ten years operating under these tenets, and he does not intend to change them. Still, the thought of it makes his heart skip a beat.

Then again, he muses, resting his head against the window, finally tearing his gaze away from his string to look at the layer of clouds below, he has already been proven wrong once.

The message from Genji had come a week after their encounter in Hanamura. It had been simple, somehow curt for all its brevity:  _ I am in Gibraltar. The world needs Overwatch again. If you wish to redeem yourself in any meaningful way, join me. _ Hanzo had little interest in Overwatch--which, to his knowledge, did not even exist in any real capacity any longer--and had put off going as long as he could. But knowing that Genji is alive has eaten at him for weeks, finally driving him to board a plane for the tiny English colony in search of his long-presumed-dead brother. Hanzo has no idea what he will do or say when he arrives, or if anyone even expects him, but there was nothing else for him. His time in Japan is done--perhaps forever, now that Genji lives--and all that awaits him elsewhere is a continued life of running and meaningless, impersonal mercenary work. 

The thought that Genji is still alive still sits strangely in his mind. It comes as a surprise every time he remembers, a little jolt that often stops him in his tracks until he can process it again. Even now, a mere few hours away, it still does not feel real. 

His eyes fall down to his left hand again. He smooths the thumb of his other hand over the thin scarlet thread, although he cannot feel it. The threads do not have a physical presence: visible to their owners but incorporeal, often ignored until one notices it again. He hates that he is so aware of it now. 

Who would want a soulmate who tried to murder their own brother?

Hanzo remembers being young, when the red strings were still new and exciting. It is most common to find one’s soulmate (or soulmates, for those lucky few with strings on multiple fingers) until young adulthood, so children and teenagers spent much of their time speculating on who they would find: steadfast friends or deep romance, priceless mentors or new families. He and Genji both had single strings, and like most children, wondered at those destiny had set for them.

Growing up in Japan, Genji’s pointed off toward the southwest, leading as far as southwestern Asia, or even somewhere in Africa. Hanzo’s suggested somewhere in the direction of the southern US. As children, they both wanted the same thing: a trustworthy friend. When they got older, Genji’s wishes turned more crass, and often he voiced a desire for someone attractive and famous. Hanzo thought wistfully of someone he could befriend outside of the clan, perhaps even someone who would love him despite his family. Then, as they got older still, the thought of his soulmate fell by the wayside, while Genji went out every night looking for sex and parties, ostensibly looking for his own partner and filling the gaps until then.

After the incident, Hanzo has deliberately given his own desires no thought. 

Hanzo catches himself staring again at his string, which has moved perhaps a few degrees to the side in the last several minutes. He scowls, disgusted at himself, and turns his gaze back out the window. It does not matter where his soulmate is. His only concern is Genji, and the bizarre thing that he has become.

Eventually, the overhead PA pings and an automated voice announces their descent. Hanzo buckles himself in and lets the thoughts of his upcoming reunion distract him.

Disembarking from the plane is simple, his only luggage consisting of a small carry-on duffle and an instrument case hiding his bow. Gibraltar is truly tiny--barely more than six kilometers from the airport to the tip of the peninsula. Because of this, he opts to walk, hoping the hour or so between him and the Watchpoint will allow him to calm his nerves in time. 

As he sets off, he glances at his thread again. It has changed direction, pointing steadily south in the direction he is traveling. His heart thumps against his ribs with the familiar surge of excitement, which he forcefully shoves back down. It does not matter, he reminds himself. He is not here for fanciful romance. 

Still, he cannot help but notice that the closer he gets to the base, the more the string shifts back and forth, as though a shorter distance has made it more sensitive to his soulmate’s movements. 

The old Overwatch base is nestled in the cliffs by the sea, hidden from view, although not necessarily a secret from the rest of Gibraltar. The road winds around and through the cliffs until the rocky walls are abruptly interrupted by steel paneling. A few feet ahead, an open archway serves as the entrance to the base, the heavy doors swung wide open. Hanzo suspects that there are so few visitors nowadays that keeping the gate closed is more of a formality. He continues on, following the road into the base proper.

A flash of movement catches his eye, like the reflection of sunshine off of a mirror somewhere above him. He looks up toward the source and his chest seizes.

Genji stands atop one of the nearer buildings. He looks the same as he did in Hanamura, all sleek, dark metal and acid-green edging. A nauseating mix of relief and disgust churns Hanzo’s gut at the sight. He does not know what horrifies him more: the knowledge that Genji is no longer human, or that Hanzo did this to him. 

“Hanzo,” Genji says neutrally. He hops down gracefully, landing on the ground in front of Hanzo with barely a noise. “You came. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“I still may leave,” Hanzo replies darkly. “How did you know to expect me?”

“One of Athena’s security drones caught sight of you on your way here. I asked Winston to allow me to see you before the rest of the team.” Genji tilts his head thoughtfully. Hanzo finds himself frustrated that he cannot read the expression behind the mask. 

“I am glad to see you,” Genji says after a long moment. “Truly.”

Hanzo scowls. “I am here for answers,” he replies. “Not to exchange pleasantries.”

“Ah, there’s the Hanzo I know,” Genji sighs. He looks up toward the sky, and Hanzo knows he is rolling his eyes. The familiarity of the motion strikes a chord somewhere in Hanzo’s chest, and he finds himself relaxing marginally at the sight. 

Genji looks back at him, the fiberglass visor impassive. “I asked you here because these are the people who saved me,” he says, gesturing with one hand to the rest of the base. “And because Overwatch is coming together again because they-- _ we _ are needed.”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you. Many of these people are family to me. And I told you before--if you want to atone, action is the way, and there are fewer goals more noble than this.” Genji shakes his head and continues, “But you have just arrived, and there are other things to discuss before that decision is made. Winston knows of you and has agreed to allow you to stay at the Watchpoint for as long as you like while we . . . figure things out.”

Though still bristling, Hanzo nods. The long trip has left him weary, and he looks forward to having somewhere to settle, alone. Genji turns and starts to walk away, heading toward a bulky warehouse built into the cliff. “In the meantime,” Genji says, “I would like you to meet the others.”

Genji leads them through the base, a sprawling maze of steel and stone melded together. The buildings are spacious, but the tons of rock overhead still make many parts of the base feeling close and claustrophobic. As they walk, Hanzo’s thread continues to shift. He watches it as they walk: moving back and forth at a narrow angle as though the other person is pacing, then stopping, then steadily moving in one direction again. Hanzo can’t tell if he is getting closer or not, or whether he should mention it to Genji, but he is becoming steadily more certain that his soulmate is somewhere in this base.

“Your string?” Genji asks lightly, startling Hanzo out of his thought. He looks up and sees Genji looking at him. The cyborg nods toward Hanzo’s left hand and says, “You’ve been staring. Have you not met . . . ?”

Hanzo grimaces. “No,” he replies curtly, and refuses to elaborate. Genji looks away, shoulders tensing slowly, and Hanzo feels a touch of shame. Despite everything, he is here for Genji, to find his answers and perhaps even broach the topic of reconciliation, and yet he cannot bring himself to be anything but angry. He is only proving Genji correct--perhaps there is no hope for him at all.

After a long moment passes, he clears his throat uncomfortably and asks, “Have you?”

He can tell by the way Genji’s head snaps up that he is surprised. Genji regards him for a long moment, then says, “Yes, actually. I have.”

Hanzo finds he can’t make eye contact and turns away. “Good,” he says. “That is . . . good.” He has to fight not to make another face. He hates the awkwardness, the way he has to force casual conversation. 

Genji hums. “He is my mentor,” he says, “and a very dear friend. He is still in Nepal right now, but I hope to convince him to join us soon.” He lifts a hand and flexes, cybernetic gauntlets clicking gently with the movement. “He helped me come to terms with what I am. I would not be even half the man I am today had I not met him.”

Hanzo lifts his own hand to stare at his string. “How many others are here?” he asks.

“Six, currently, all of them Overwatch members who answered the recall. Winston has mentioned a few others that may join us, in time.” Another thoughtful head tilt. “Do you think they will be here?”

Hanzo presses his lips into a thin line instead of answering. Mercifully, Genji lets the subject drop. 

Finally, their walk ends in what looks like a control room on the other side of the base. The place clearly has not been of much use in years; multiple holographic monitors are suspended on the walls in various states of function, while tarps cover stacks of crates that have been shoved into corners and against walls. A couple of wide tables are spread around the room, covered in digital tablets and paper documents under bits of recent trash. A group of varied people has gathered at the end of the room, conversing idly--and in the middle of them stands a seven-foot-tall, armor-clad gorilla in glasses.

Hanzo stops up short, and Genji chuckles. 

A shorter young woman with short, spiky brown hair is the first to notice the newcomers. She stands up on tip-toe to see over the head of a blonde woman, then grins and waves enthusiastically.  “Genji!” she shouts, effectively stopping the conversation. Four other pairs of eyes immediately turn on Hanzo and Genji. Hanzo holds his chin high under the scrutiny.

“Lena,” Genji replies amicably. He steps forward toward the group, then turns back with a gesture toward Hanzo. “Everyone, this is my brother, Hanzo. Despite everything, I hope you will treat him well while he is here.”

Hanzo becomes abruptly aware that everyone in this room knows what he did. Despite this, everyone’s expressions range from neutral to friendly, and he doesn’t know whether this is better or worse. 

Genji introduces everyone one by one. The excitable woman is Lena, and the large, impeccably-polite gorilla is the oft-mentioned Winston. Reinhardt is a giant of a gentleman whose “inside voice” is still a booming shout; on the other hand, Torbjorn is a much shorter man who looks like he may be fifty-percent prosthetics. The last is Angela, the blonde woman, who introduces herself as the team’s doctor and whom Genji credits for the fact that he is still alive. Angela does cast Hanzo a scrutinizing look, but says nothing on the matter.

During the introductions, Hanzo glances discreetly at his hand. His thread does not end on the hands of anyone else in the room--given the interesting spread of individuals in front of him, it comes as a greater relief than he expected. It hasn’t escaped his notice, however, that there are only five of the six people Genji mentioned. His heart picks up the pace as he realizes the thread is moving toward the doorway. 

“I suppose McCree slept in again,” Genji says, chuckling. “Of course he would.”

“No I didn’t, I was doing somethin’,” drawls a deep, accented voice from the direction of the door. Hanzo can hear the man approaching before he sees him: the jingle of metal, as though the stranger is wearing heavy jewelry. “Y’all wouldn’t believe this, but I think--”

The speaker steps into the doorway and stops short. Hanzo stares. 

The man, apparently named McCree, is more of a caricature than a real person. From the ridiculous hat to the leather chaps to the spurs on his boots, he is the image of a cowboy lifted straight from an old movie. Even his accent, a thick Southern drawl, matches up with his outfit.

Between the two of them, the thin red string stretches, wrapped at the end around the cowboy’s metal left pinky where his hand dangles at his side. Hanzo lifts his own hand and follows the thread just to be sure, but there is no mistaking it. 

McCree sees the movement and glances down. When he catches sight of the thread, a slow, wide smiles stretches across his face.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. He looks up at Hanzo and tips his hat. “Howdy there, darlin’. I think we’ve been lookin’ for each other.”

The room goes still as everyone realizes just what has taken place. Lena gasps, hands flying over her mouth but not quite hiding her excitement, and Reinhardt whoops a cheer. Genji, meanwhile, starts laughing so hard that he has to lean on Reinhardt for support. 

 

\--

 

Everyone disperses a few minutes later, after the routine soulmate-meeting congratulations are passed around and Winston has given a short debrief about the new arrival. Hanzo is too aware of his surroundings the entire time. Everyone keeps glancing in his direction and he knows what they are thinking-- _ this murderer is someone’s soulmate? _ The revelation of his soulmate and the realization that he has been forced to confront it now makes him feel ill, his stomach roiling with anxiety.

McCree, for his part, seems unperturbed, and smiles throughout the rest of the discussion. When the rest of the team breaks apart, he turns to Hanzo and puts his hands on his hips. “So,” he begins with a little laugh. “I guess we’re soulmates or somethin’.”

“Or something,” Hanzo says dryly. 

On his way out, Genji stops to clap Hanzo on the shoulder once. “I’ll let you two talk,” he says, giggling again. “My brother and one of my best friends. Unbelievable.” He breaks into fresh peals of laughter as he leaves the room, shaking his head. Hanzo is left alone with a cowboy.

_His_ cowboy, apparently. 

“So, well, you probably heard but I’m McCree. Jesse McCree.” He holds out his hand. His left hand reaches up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, giving Hanzo a better view of the prosthetic that makes up the lower half of his arm. He cannot take his eyes off of the thread between them as it shifts and falls slack with McCree’s movements. 

“Shimada Hanzo,” he eventually replies, shaking McCree’s hand once and abruptly taking his back. 

“Genji’s told me a lot about you,” McCree says. With a wink, he adds, “Didn’t mention you were so damn handsome, though. Dunno what I expected from my soulmate, but I hit the jackpot.”

In spite of himself, Hanzo can feel his face redden. He grits his teeth, frustrated, and tries not to think about how the compliment warms his belly. “I realize you wish to discuss this,” he says, “but I have had a long journey.”

McCree’s smile falls a fraction, but he is undeterred. “That’s fair,” he replies. “Want me to show you the dorms? They ain’t much, but they’re cozy enough.” When Hanzo nods, he turns to lead the way out of the conference room, through another claustrophobic steel-rock tunnel and out into the open plaza. Hanzo releases a breath he did not realize he was holding as the sky opens up above his head again. 

“So,” McCree says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The spurs on his boots jangle with every step, almost as though he is walking to intentionally make noise. “Genji says he thinks you’d be a good addition to Overwatch. You’re a sniper?”

Tactical discussion is safe enough, Hanzo decides, and there appears to be no way of avoiding conversation for the next few minutes. “Yes. Archery.”

McCree whistles. “That’s a specialty I don’t think I’ve ever seen,” he says. “But if you’re even half as good as Genji says, you’ll be welcome ‘round here.”

“I did not come to join Overwatch.”

“Ah, yeah. He mentioned that too. Said if you even showed up, it’d probably just be for him.”

Hanzo finds himself bristling again. “Is there anything my brother has  _ not _ told you?” he snaps. 

McCree, to his credit, looks fairly non-plussed by the outburst. “I imagine so, but it’s mostly good stuff,” he says mildly. “Although, if you’re gettin’ at what happened between the two of you awhile ago, we all know about that.”

He shrugs before Hanzo can answer. “Don’t matter much now, though. He asked you to come here and that’s good enough for me, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not like the rest of us don’t have pasts.”

“I do not wish to discuss this with you,” Hanzo growls.

“Alright, alright.” McCree shoves his hands into his pockets and is mercifully silent for the remainder of their short walk. 

The dorms themselves are plain: rooms lined up side-by-side in a hallway, numbered and labeled by name. Most of the digital nameplates are empty, the rooms’ occupants long gone, but a few are bright with the names of those who returned. They find the one labeled with Hanzo’s name, and McCree stops and turns to face him.

“Well, here you are,” he says with a gesture toward the room. He hesitates, then sweeps off his hat and holds it in front of himself demurely. “So uh, I imagine you’ll wanna get settled and all that, but afterwards, do you wanna--I dunno, grab a drink, talk about this whole thing?” 

Hanzo regards him for a long moment. McCree’s expression is polite but earnest, his grin wide. He looks all but smitten, despite having known Hanzo only for the last twenty minutes. Hanzo has to admit, despite the man’s wild appearance, he is not unattractive. And it has been a long time since someone was so genuinely eager to be around him, seeking him out instead of running away . . .

But it will not last, no matter what McCree says. They do not know each other and it will be for the best if it stays that way.

The realization makes Hanzo turn abruptly away. “I am sorry, but I have business to take care of tonight,” he lies, tapping the panel beside the door and stepping inside. 

“Tomorrow, then?” McCree is undeterred, following Hanzo to the very edge of the threshold. “I’d really like to get to know ya, y’know?”

“I imagine I will be with Genji tomorrow.”

“For what, the whole day?” McCree gives a nervous chuckle, his bravado beginning to falter. “You’re not just tryin’ to avoid me, are you?”

Hanzo does not answer, letting his silence speak for itself.

“Wait . . .” McCree’s smile falls, his brow crinkling slightly with trepidation. “Are you?”

“It may be for the best if we do not pursue this,” Hanzo replies, turning away and moving into his room. He sets his bow against the wall and undoes the clasps on the case to unpack it. 

“‘Not pursue’ this--we’re  _ soulmates _ ,” McCree sputters. He holds up his left hand as though to prove his point. “Y’can’t just  _ not _ see where that kinda thing goes! I don’t get it. Did I do somethin’?”

“No. It is merely in both of our best interests.” Hanzo carefully opens the case, revealing his bow and quiver nestled in heavy contoured foam. He eases his bow out of its slot and strings it, leaving it ready for combat at a moment’s notice, and resolutely does not look at McCree’s face.

“How? It sure as hell ain’t mine! You don’t get to make that kinda choice for me, Shimada!”

“Then consider it made for me. Either way, I do not think we should act as anything more than teammates, and I do not intend to act on this.” Hanzo pulls out his quiver and snaps the instrument case shut, its purpose finished for the day. “I came here for Genji, and perhaps to see if I can be of use. The fact that we met each other is coincidence.”

“That don’t mean we can’t--”

“Goodnight, McCree,” Hanzo says, and shuts the door.

“Are you shittin’ me?” he hears McCree say on the other side of the door. “Shit. Goddamn it.” After another moment, he stomps off, spurs jingling, and Hanzo is left alone in the sudden silence of his dorm. 

He glances about, taking stock of what he has. There is only the most basic furniture--a bed wedged into the corner, a small table beside it, and a long desk that takes up most of the opposite wall. A fine layer of dust coats everything but the bedsheets. Hanzo drops his duffel on the bed, and the room feels a fraction warmer for the presence of his belongings. 

Alone, he sits down onto the bed and finally allows himself to decompress. The mattress is cheap, but soft enough to sink into, the memory foam take the weight of his weary body off of his muscles. He lays back and stretches across the mattress, staring up at the dull gray ceiling. The thoughts and feelings of the day wash over him all at once, forming a nauseating pit in his gut.

He has spent an hour at the Watchpoint, and already he regrets it. The people are friendly enough, but he knows they must be judging him for his past actions. Genji is clearly a well-loved member of the team--doubtful that they all regard Hanzo with even a fraction of that warmth. 

But it has been good to see Genji again. Despite the fact that he no longer looks like the young man Hanzo knew, and the carefree attitude has been tempered by time and, evidently, his unnamed soulmate, he is still achingly familiar. The warmth in his voice when he said Hanzo’s name, the easy way he clapped him on the shoulder in passing, the tinge of pride in his words when he introduced him to the team--they all spoke of a relationship from years past, long since destroyed by their family--and Hanzo’s decisions. 

He sighs deeply and lifts his left hand. The thread points off somewhere else in the base, moving slowly as it follows McCree’s departure from the dorms and to parts unknown. Guilt pushes up into his throat, threatening to gag him. McCree had been nothing but friendly, and the look on his face as Hanzo pushed him away had been heartbreaking: hurt and anger combining in a painful cocktail. 

It is for the best, Hanzo reminds himself. He is alone, and he will remain that way. The reminder does nothing for his guilt.

He pushes himself up and roots around in his duffel bag until his fingers hit cool glass. He comes up with a bottle of  _ sake _ , purchased before his flight, and unscrews the cap. The scent is familiar, sharp and sweet.

Reminders might not make the guilt go away, but alcohol certainly will. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go. Again. 
> 
> Sadly, I wouldn't bet on my update schedule being quite so quick in the future, but I had a lot of time off this week. Still, I'll do my best to be consistent.
> 
> Enjoy! Or don't. Whichever.

The ring of gunshots fills McCree’s ears, a pleasant distraction from his own thoughts. He fires four shots, getting three in one target. The fourth bullet sinks into the wall several inches to the side of the target bot’s head. He growls, reloads Peacekeeper, and fires three bullets into the offending bot’s chest with extreme prejudice. The last two shots aim for a third bot but end up in the wall as well; when McCree realizes his mistake, he snarls and kicks out at a discarded shell on the ground beside him. He hasn’t shot this badly in years, and he knows exactly what is distracting him.

With a resigned groan, he holsters his pistol and trades it for a cigarillo. As he leans against the wall and lights up, he looks around at the range. Multiple target bots lay on the ground, sparking, and several others limp about with multiple bullet holes in their chasses. He’s lost count of how many bullets he’s gone through. Athena has probably kept count, but he’s too embarrassed to find out how many missed their mark. 

_It’s for the best_ , he thinks bitterly. 

McCree sucks deeply on his cigarillo, watching the burning tip flare bright, and holds the smoke until it begins to burn. “ _ Fucking _ Shimada,” he sighs as he exhales. 

“I take it things didn’t go well with my brother?”

McCree just barely suppresses the urge to jump. He looks over at Genji, who has entered the range without so much as a peep. “You really need to quit sneakin’ up on people,” he says mildly.

Genji laughs softly. “My apologies,” he says. He crosses his arms and leans up against the wall. “You seem troubled.”

“How do you figure that?” Genji gestures at the range, and McCree grimaces. “Ah. Yeah. Got me there.”

“Hanzo was not receptive to finding out you’re soulmates?”

McCree snorts. “That’s putting it mildly,” he says bitterly. He takes another drag of his cigarillo. “Sounds like he wants nothin’ to do with me at all. Told me he wasn’t gonna talk to me about it all because it’s ‘for the best.’ Who the fuck meets their soulmate and says that they’re just not gonna try?”

Genji makes a sympathetic noise. “I thought he might be difficult,” he says, “but I admit I didn’t expect him to go that far. My apologies for his behavior.”

McCree rubs the heel of his hand against his chest, trying to soothe the phantom pain under his sternum. It feels too childish to admit, but Hanzo’s rejection had  _ hurt _ . Sure, not all first meetings went well--rarely did soulmates just fall into each other’s arms at first sight, contrary to what movies would have everyone believe--but he had never dreamed he would be outright dismissed. A life-altering partnership, severed before it began with a few expressionless words. 

And dammit, Hanzo had been far too perfect to be so cruel. Sexy, competent, and sharp as a tack if Genji’s testimony was anything to go by--Hanzo was a package deal. It was extra unfair.

“It’s disappointin’,” he admits, addressing the floor. “Waitin’ so long for something like that only to get thrown out on your ass. I kinda figured your brother’d be snippy when he got there, but not that bad.”

“I can imagine,” Genji agrees. He pauses, then continues carefully, “What he said is terrible, that is true. But be patient. It is only his first day here, and there is much he has to think about. He is here because I am here, and he has been alone for a very long time.”

“That ain’t no excuse.”

“No, he is being a dick,” Genji agrees mildly. McCree surprises himself with the laugh that bursts forth, nearly dropping his cigarillo. “But Hanzo has always been this way. He makes a decision and sticks to it stubbornly, despite his own doubts. When we were younger, when the clan was getting him ready to take over in the future, he stopped talking about his soulmate completely because he thought it would be easier. And that was before--this.” He gestures vaguely at himself. “I’m not sure he ever expected to meet you at all.”

McCree grumbles around his smoke, and Genji chuckles. “I am not saying he is excused,” he repeats. “Just perhaps that he needs time before you approach him with this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” McCree sits up off the wall and shoves his hands in his pockets, loping toward the door. “Surprised you’re stickin’ up for him like this, considerin’ everything between you two.”

Genji trails after him, his cybernetic legs letting him keep up easily with McCree’s longer strides. “I brought him here because I think there is still good in him. I have forgiven him for what happened, and now I hope to see him forgive himself.” He pauses, head tilted, and adds, “Besides, I think you will make a good match for him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Both thick-headed, stubborn, far too invested in your appearances--”

McCree shoves Genji into the wall, laughing in spite of himself. Genji catches himself and laughs, too, and McCree finally feels the tightness in his chest begin to loosen.

Genji’s right. It is only the first day. Hell, Mamá used to tell him all sorts of stories about how she hated the man that would be McCree’s father for weeks before she grew to even like him, let alone love him. He’ll try again later, when things have settled and he’s less likely to get his head bitten off.

Hopefully, this isn’t a complete waste of time. 

 

\--

 

McCree wakes up the next morning feeling confident, emboldened by his talk with Genji. Take it easy, he reminds himself as he showers. Don’t jump the gun. Even soulmate relationships take time to develop. If he manages to catch Hanzo at all today, he’ll apologize for yesterday and hopefully, that will be enough to let them start over. 

He dresses casually and makes his way into the dining hall for breakfast, and is greeted with a series of familiar faces: Reinhardt and Angela bickering over what constitutes a healthy breakfast, Winston at the head of the table with several digital readouts in front of him, and Lena chatting with Törbjorn and a short, dark-haired newcomer that McCree immediately recognizes.

“Mei!” he yells, and Mei immediately turns in her seat to face him. She breaks out in a round-cheeked grin and slides out of her seat to meet him. McCree laughs as he wraps her up in a tight bear hug, lifting her off of the ground. 

“Jesse!” she giggles, returning the hug with surprising force. “It is so good to see you!”

“Where’ve you been, shortstuff? I thought you’d be the first one back for the recall!” McCree gives her one last squeeze before he lets her go, holding her out at arm’s length. “Damn, you haven’t aged a day since I saw you.” Much like Angela, Mei looks exactly as she did when McCree last saw her five or six years ago. Seems like all the women in Overwatch are destined to be timeless angels, while he just gets older, scruffier, and pudgier. 

Mei blushes faintly, brushing her long bangs away from her eyes. “It is a long story,” she says. “I just got in this morning. Winston contacted me when the recall started, but I wanted to finish something before I came back here.”

“Well, shit, tell me all about it.”

McCree fetches himself a cup of coffee from the automated machine in the kitchen, weaving around Reinhardt and Angela (whose argument appears to have been resolved, or at least abandoned) and sits himself at the table beside Mei and the others. He’s immediately enraptured by Mei’s story, how she was stuck in cryostasis for years to save herself, and her investigation of old Overwatch bases that delayed her from coming back to Gibraltar even after her rescue. 

He and Lena take turns over breakfast filling Mei in on what she’s missed: the fall of Overwatch, what they’ve done in the last few years, the work they’ve done since Overwatch restarted. McCree goes through three cups of coffee and two plates of bacon and eggs while they talk. He’d missed this--the easy camaraderie of a team, the good friends he’d made before the group disbanded. Seeing everyone gathered around this table, talking as though they were never apart, leaves a pleasant warmth in his belly. 

The pleasant breakfast is interrupted by a sudden shout from down the hall. It is followed shortly by more shouting in another voice, one McCree recognizes as Genji’s. The words are in Japanese, undecipherable to his ears, but it becomes quickly apparently that the first voice is Hanzo’s, and the brothers are deeply embroiled in an argument. The rest of the team slowly falls silent as they all catch on to the fight, casting nervous glances at one another.

Finally, the shouting stops with a definitive word from Genji. There is silence, shortly followed by rapid footsteps before Genji stalks through the main door. He makes it halfway to the kitchen before he stops, raises his head, and looks at the gathered team.

“You . . . all heard that, I take it,” he says slowly.

Lena grimaces. “Sorry love, but yeah. You weren’t exactly quiet.” 

Genji sighs heavily. “My apologies. I did not mean to cause a scene.” He makes his way over for a cup of coffee, his shoulders drawn up and stiff. 

The others slowly resume their conversations, but a heavy air lingers over the room. McCree watches as Genji stirs a truly unhealthy amount of sugar and cream into his coffee, uncharacteristically tense, then glances down at his hand. His red thread points off toward the main door to the building, slowly angling off. He can’t begin to tell where the other Shimada is going post-argument.

“What was all that about?” he asks lowly as Genji makes his way to the table, breakfast ignored.

Genji shakes his head as he reaches up to his visor, undoing the clasp that keeps it in place. He sets the visor aside on the table, and McCree has to fight not to stare. He’s seen the scars before, several pale, thin lines that criss-cross over Genji’s nose and cheeks, but they never fail to catch him off-guard. 

“A number of things,” Genji eventually replies. He pulls back the tight black hood, revealing a shock of short, raven hair. With a little sigh of relief, he picks up his coffee. “I approached him this morning just to talk about, well, everything. It was fine until the end.”

“What set it off?”

“I brought up Overwatch again.” Genji takes a long sip of his coffee, then adds, “I may have also told him off for how he treated you yesterday.”

“Hm, yep, that’d do it, wouldn’t it.” McCree chuckles into his own cup. “You don’t gotta defend me. Just worry about everythin’ else between you two.”

“How he treats my friends  _ is _ between us.” Genji gives another shake of his head. “It is alright. There will be a lot of fights between us, I think. I expected it before he even got here. But if it means we’ll get somewhere in the end, it will have been worth it.”

At the end of the table, Winston clears his throat, holding up a data pad. “Good morning, everyone,” he says, standing up to his full seven-foot height. Despite his gentle voice and general awkward demeanor, he has always been able to maintain a presence. The table quiets immediately. “We have a few small missions coming up in the next week, which we’ll need everyone for. I expect you all to start logging solo training time beginning today, and we’ll start doing team exercises again this afternoon. So let’s get started.”

McCree’s fingers twitch with the promise of action, and he settles into his chair and lets the thought of missions and justice distract him from everything else--until he notices his string abruptly change direction and start pointing  _ up _ .

“Jesus Christ, is he climbin’ the damn cliff?” he whispers in disbelief, and Genji chuckles.

“He might very well be.”

 

\--

 

The next several days pass in a blur. Overwatch hasn’t had any significant missions since the recall, waiting for enough agents to return to actually make it plausible, and the headquarters buzz with excitement. Winston doesn’t have much lined up yet--a few recon missions, primarily, but he hints at a big lead in Siberia that he’s currently chasing. It’s enough to kick everyone into high gear, ready to dust off old skills and test themselves again.

McCree throws himself into training with the rest of the team and logs a number of solo hours. He burns through boxes of bullets and ends up with a few bruises by the end of a week just from practice alone, and goes to bed each night feeling well-exerted and accomplished. Sometimes, it’s even enough to take his mind off of Hanzo. 

He doesn’t see the archer for four days. He knows Hanzo is still around, but only barely. The erratic movements of his string, followed by hours of stillness, are the only way he has to track Hanzo at all. It’s tempting at times to follow it to the end and figure out where Hanzo is, but he decides against it every time. There’s no way to endear himself to Hanzo if he decides to be creepy and stalk him. So McCree trains and passes time with the rest of the team and catches up on much-needed sleep, whittling away the time until missions begin. 

The afternoon prior to their first recon mission, he spends doing training simulations. Winston has assigned him, Mei, and Angela for recon in England, following up on the Talon infiltration from a few weeks prior. Angela is busy preparing in other ways, so he and Mei practice together. They fall easily into old tactical patterns, but Mei never was a soldier and they can both use the practice.

The training set-up in Gibraltar is top-notch. It comprises a whole arena of buildings with balconies and twisting catwalks, filled with bots that can be set to enemy or ally. McCree spearheads the simulations and has Athena time them on clearing the area.

During their fourth simulation, McCree hits his stride. He ducks and rolls behind a corner as a bot fires non-lethal pellets, and hears them skip off the wall. He’s back on his feet in an instant and has Peacekeeper at the ready as he rounds the other side of the building. He fires off four shots into two bots, knocking them prone, and takes off at a sprint toward his next targets.

Over the comm, Mei cries out in surprise, then mutters in Chinese. It’s the sixth time since they began that he’s heard her get hurt or angry, and it’s starting to become a concern.

“Mei?” he calls into his comm. “You alright, sweetpea?”

“ _ I am fine _ ,” Mei replies, still sounding put-out. “ _ I just keep having trouble with-- _ ” She’s cut off by the sound of her own cryo-blaster; McCree can hear the firing over his comm and from somewhere nearby. He skids to a halt near the entrance to the arena and catches sight of Mei, standing over a bot. The bot’s chassis gleams with a layer of ice and frost, but Mei still looks displeased as she rubs her arm.

“Alright, we’ll call this one,” McCree says. He moves over to the holographic panel and taps at a few buttons. The remaining few bots immediately fold up and collapse in place, unmoving, and Athena announces their scores overhead. He holsters Peacekeeper and looks to Mei. “What’s goin’ on? You kept getting pegged out there.”

“I was only hit twice!” she replies indignantly. She gestures with her cryo-blaster. “I’m just having difficulty aiming today. I did not used to do so badly. I’m sorry. Maybe I need to recalibrate . . . ?”

“Your stance is wrong,” says a new voice.

McCree whips his head around for the source and is surprised to see Hanzo standing by the doorway. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, looking pensive. McCree’s heart gives a little stutter.

“W-what?” Mei stutters.

“How long have you been here?” McCree asks.

“I was watching your last two simulations,” Hanzo answers. He stands and approaches them, his eyes on Mei. “Your aim is fine when you are standing still, but when you run, your aim is affected, yes? You aren’t compensating for your weapon’s kickback when you move.”

“Oh,” Mei murmurs, looking down. “That’s so simple.”

McCree frowns at Hanzo. “What were you doin’ just watchin’ us?”

“I was looking for Genji at first, but I found you instead. And I wanted to see how Overwatch worked in action.” Hanzo shrugs one shoulder, indifferent.

“I’m not holding it any differently when I run,” Mei says, holding her weapon up toward a target mannequin by the far well. “I’m not sure what to do differently.”

Hanzo’s eyes flick toward McCree: a silent request. McCree nods, and Hanzo moves to follow Mei.

“That is the problem,” he tells her, circling her as he speaks. He stops at her side and taps her bent elbow. “When you are standing, your legs will support you through the kickback. But when you run, you must use your shoulders to compensate more. If it were a larger weapon, you would hold it to your body to stabilize it, but that is not necessary in this case.”

He nods, and Mei takes a second to line up the shot before she fires an icicle at the mannequin. It doesn’t hit dead-center, but still sinks deep into the target’s foam shoulder. She walks a few paces and fires again mid-movement, catching the target this time in the abdomen. She stops to survey her handwork, then bursts into pleased giggles, jumping with joy. 

“Good,” Hanzo says. “Clearly you can handle your weapon well, but it won’t mean a thing if you cannot control it during a mission.”

“Thank you,” Mei says sincerely, whirling to face Hanzo with a grin. To McCree’s surprise, Hanzo gives a tiny smile in return.

“I’m gonna go practice again,” Mei announces. “Jesse, can you reset?”

“Sure thing, shortstuff.” McCree taps a couple of buttons on the control panel, and the training bots light back up. Athena counts down, and Mei takes off into the arena, quickly disappearing out of sight. McCree watches her progress on a holoscreen set up nearby. 

“You sure know your stuff,” he comments, glancing at Hanzo, who surprisingly also follows the screen. “Didn’t think a bow and an ice blaster were all that similar.”

“They are not. But I handled multiple weapons as I grew up. My father preferred we learn traditional weapons, but I have still handled a gun more than once.” Hanzo shrugs again, his eyes never leaving the screen. “And it was a simple correction.”

They both fall silent, watching as Mei darts through the arena, taking down bots with greatly improved accuracy. McCree hazards a glance toward Hanzo, who seems to be making a concerted effort not to look at him. Their red thread hangs slack between them, their only point of connection. His chest aches with the urge to inquire about it, to ask just why Hanzo is so intent on avoiding him, but he swallows down the urge. Instead, he takes the moment just to look, admiring the man’s sculpted chest and the detailed, elegant tattoo that wraps sinuously around his muscular arm. Damn, he wishes he could get close enough to really look at that tattoo.

He sees Hanzo look down, too, first at his left hand and then to the side where the string sits between them, before frowning deeply.

“Well,” Hanzo says, and he is clearly uncomfortable as he turns his head away. “I have intruded enough on your time. I will--”

“I’m sorry,” McCree blurts. Hanzo stops short, turning back with an incredulous expression.

“What?”

“For the other day. I’m sorry,” McCree repeats. “I, uh. Realize I probably came on a bit strong with the whole soulmate thing. Shouldn’t have jumped at you like I did. Sorry.”

Hanzo looks stunned by the apology. It takes several seconds for him to school his expression into something more neutral, and he breathes deeply before saying, “I apologize as well. I should not have reacted as I did.”

McCree blinks once. He hadn’t expected Hanzo to even acknowledge what had happened, let alone apologize for it. Anticipation has him smiling before he realizes it, but before he can even open his mouth, Hanzo cuts him off again.

“I have not changed my mind. I still do not believe this should take place,” he says quickly. McCree deflates immediately, the warmth in his chest replaced quickly with cold disappointment. Hanzo grimaces slightly and looks away again. “But I realize my words were harsh, and for that I apologize.”

McCree gives a resigned sigh. “Alright,” he says, looking back at the screen. Mei is making steady progress through the drill, according to the scoreboard. “Fair enough.” It isn’t fair at all, but if he wants even a chance at whatever they could have, he has to be patient. 

He waits a moment before saying, “The offer for drinks is still open though.  _ Not _ for that,” he quickly clarifies when Hanzo turns a disbelieving look on him. “Just for, y’know, friendly drinkin’. You don’t gotta be a ghost around here the whole time. Even if we weren’t, y’know,  _ that _ , I’d still invite you.”

Hanzo doesn’t answer, but McCree can see the answer in the stiff line of his shoulders and the way his spine straightens. He keeps his attention on the screen so that he doesn’t have to watch as Hanzo walks away from him again.

Damn it.

 

\--

 

The next day’s mission takes McCree, Mei, and Angela out of Gibraltar and into England proper. London is a massive, sprawling city, but luckily, their recon is confined to King’s Row and the surrounding areas. McCree tries to focus on the mission, but still spends most of the shuttle flight with his gaze fixated on his thread. He is grateful when the simple recon turns into a firefight, and lets the adrenaline of battle and the post-fight weariness of his muscles distract him. Fights are simple: aim, shoot, repeat, don’t get shot, go home, and have a beer. 

The recon portion of the mission is largely a failure, but overall, the assignment is a success for having flushed out a pocket of Talon agents. They fly out after four days in good cheer, ready to go back to base and sleep in beds that are slightly softer than the concrete slabs in the London safehouse. 

When they arrive, it is nearly three in the morning. Mei and Angela go to bed immediately, but McCree feels too restless and takes to wandering the base, instead. He lights a cigarillo and sets out, pulling his  _ serape _ close around his shoulders to fend off the cool evening air. 

The Watchpoint at night is still and silent, lit by automatic lamps that flick on as he passes and flip back off again when he is gone. When he was younger, McCree used to spend evenings wandering the base just to get a few minutes alone, away from overbearing commanders and a team ten times as big as it was now. A few things have been moved or taken away, but it’s largely the same as it was all those years ago. He takes his time walking along the road, letting the post-mission excitement wear from his body with each puff of his cigarillo.

When he moves to pass by the training ranges, he stops. Despite the late hour, he can see from outside that the lights in one of the arenas are on. Curiosity wins him over, and he’s tapping in his PIN and letting himself into the range before he can convince himself otherwise.

When he gets inside, he can hear the sounds of combat and the whines of destroyed bots, but the combatant is nowhere to be seen. They are hidden somewhere in the depths of the arena, so he turns his attention to the screen to see if he can catch a glimpse. He expects to see one of the other team members getting in some late practice--insomnia is not uncommon amongst them all--but is surprised when he sees the cameras trained on Hanzo.

The camera follows Hanzo as he effortlessly scales the side of one of the buildings, straight up without any handholds, and hauls himself over the edge. His bow is immediately in his hands, an arrow nocked and drawn tight against the string. McCree stares as Hanzo paces across the rooftop, his body finely-tuned and at the ready, his gaze dark and intense.

From his current view, McCree can see a couple of bots roaming up the path. He doesn’t even realize that Hanzo is aiming until an arrow pierces through the body of one of the bots. The second bot barely has a chance to turn its head before another arrow punctures through its red plastic eye. When he looks back to the screen, Hanzo is already taking off, barely sparing a glance toward his downed targets.

“Wow,” McCree breathes. 

He watches as Hanzo breezes through the rest of the simulation, never once pausing for breath or breaking stride. Every arrow he fires hits its mark without fail. He climbs buildings and leaps across rooftops with speeds that shouldn’t be possibly for a plain human. McCree is riveted by the grace of Hanzo’s every movement and the play of strong, lean muscle under tattooed skin.

He only stops when he comes across a cluster of bots in a room below, but he looks unperturbed. Instead, Hanzo grabs another arrow from his quiver and taps the head against his bow as he notches it, then pauses briefly as he considers his targets. McCree doesn’t have a chance to see what the difference in the arrow is before Hanzo lets it fly. When the arrow strikes the far wall of the room, it shatters apart into a flurry of new projectiles, striking down each of the bots in a second.

The screen is just high-definition enough that McCree can see the satisfied smirk on Hanzo’s face.

Overhead, Athena announces the score. Just under seven minutes to clear the entire arena--and a full ten seconds better than Jesse’s own simulation record. Despite the fact that the simulation has ended, Hanzo on-screen turns abruptly around and aims an arrow at an unseen target. 

McCree glances up and realizes that Hanzo, standing atop the nearest roof, is aiming at him. 

He puts up his hands, fixing an easygoing smile on his face. “Just me,” he says placatingly. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Hanzo frowns down at him, but eases the arrow off of the bowstring. He steps off the edge of the building and lands easily on both feet, letting his momentum carry him through the first few steps as he walks toward McCree. “You were watching me,” he states. “I did not think you were even on the base.”

“Yeah, sorry. I just got back and I was still too wired to hit the hay just yet. Took a walk and the lights were on . . .” McCree trails off with an awkward shrug, then quickly regroups. “But that was  _ amazin _ ’. Knew you had to be a good fighter with how Genji talked about you, but that was just somethin’ else.”

“Genji is not the most accurate storyteller.”

“You  _ could _ just say ‘thank you.’”

Hanzo’s mouth twitches at the corner--whether a smile or a frown, McCree can’t tell. “You have some skill as well,” Hanzo offers.

McCree grins. “Comin’ from you, I think that’s high praise.”

“I said  _ some _ skill.” The quip comes with another little quirk of Hanzo’s mouth, this time identifiable as the beginnings of a smile. McCree grips his hand over his heart, feigning an expression of agony.

“Ouch, darlin’. And here I thought we were gettin’ friendly,” he says with a forlorn sigh. “Me and this fool heart o’ mine.”

Something in Hanzo’s expression hardens, and his faint smile disappears. His eyes flick down to where their thread hangs between them. When McCree notices the motion, he can’t help a touch of frustration. 

“Y’know,” he says, “I don’t get what your reasons are for ignorin’ this. But you can stop worryin’ about me tryin’ to make something out of it when you don’t want to.”

Hanzo’s eyes narrow at him, but McCree barrels on. “I’m just tryin’ to be friendly. Sure, I’d  _ like _ to see where this goes, but obviously that ain’t happenin’ right now and I ain’t interested in forcing it.”

“I’ve been led to believe that one generally pursues their soulmate regardless.”

“Well, not if they’re a decent person, they don’t.” McCree shakes his head. “Look, I get that there’s a lot goin’ on, even if I don’t really know what it  _ is _ . But I ain’t such a bad guy that I’d jump your bones if you didn’t want it, or whatever it is you’re worried about.”

A muscle in Hanzo’s jaw flexes. McCree shrugs and turns to leave. “Anyway,” he finishes, “I’m gonna get some shut-eye. You should probably do the same.” He leaves before Hanzo can say anything else, fighting down the bitterness climbing up his throat. 

He lays awake for ten minutes looking at the string around his finger, before shoving his hand under his pillow. 

 

\--

 

Despite how late it is when he finally gets to bed, McCree wakes just after six in the morning, his internal clock a complete mess from the timezone jumps and his regular insomnia. He swears a sleep-deprived storm into his pillow when he realizes he won’t be getting back to sleep, hauls himself out of bed, and wanders down to the dining hall in his flannel pants and ratty t-shirt. If anyone else is at breakfast early, well, they’ll just have to deal with his apathy. 

He enters through the kitchen, eyes half-shut, and punches buttons on the coffee maker until he hears it gurgle to life. As he waits for the mug to fill with life-saving caffeine, he very slowly becomes aware that he is not the only one in the room. At the table sit Genji and, surprisingly, Hanzo, conversing quietly side-by-side over coffee (Genji) and tea (Hanzo). They don’t appear to have noticed him quite yet, intent upon whatever they are talking about in rapid Japanese. He doesn’t understand a lick of it, but it sounds serious. 

The coffee machine sputters loudly, spitting out coffee with a sudden violence. Both men lift their heads to regard McCree at the counter.

“Uh,” he says, abruptly aware of just how ratty he is at 6:17 in the morning. “Mornin’.”

“Good morning, Jesse,” Genji says with a mischievous smirk that makes his scarred face look ten years younger. Hanzo says nothing, his gaze fixated on his tea. 

“Sorry, I’ll be outta your hair in a minute,” McCree says, swiping his cup from the machine and turning to the fridge. Today calls for strong coffee and far too much cream. 

“Nonsense. Breakfast will be soon, anyway. Join us.” Genji gestures at the chair on his other side. 

“Genji--” Hanzo starts, then cuts himself with a wince and a pained grunt that definitely mean Genji has kicked him under the table. Genji’s smile never falters. McCree holds back laughter at the expression on Hanzo’s face, reminiscent of an annoyed cat, and takes a seat. 

Genji immediately engages him in a conversation about what happened on the base while he was gone on the recon mission. The best story involves Reinhardt, a significant amount of German lager, and the stealing of several jars of peanut butter from the secret stash in Winston’s room. Genji is laughing so hard he can barely tell the story, and McCree has to stop to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. Hanzo is silent throughout, sipping delicately at his tea. 

“Honestly, you get anyone on this team drunk and you’ll have a story,” McCree chuckles. “Remember when Lena took us to that pub in London? Got so shit-faced she couldn’t keep her chronal thing in check and kept accidentally time-jumping through the bar?”

“That was a beautiful night,” Genji agrees. His gaze cuts to Hanzo, lips curling up in a wicked grin. “Although, you haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen my brother work his way through a bottle of  _ sake _ .”

“Can’t imagine that. He might actually  _ smile _ if he got drunk.”

“There was one time--”

“Genji,” Hanzo warns, his tone dark. Genji stops mid-word and, looking properly chastised, slouches into his chair. Something undefinable flickers across Hanzo’s face.

And then he smiles. It is faint, crooked, one corner of his mouth turned up more than the other, but it is undeniably a smile.

“You must remember,” he says, “that one of us spent  _ considerably _ more time drunk than the other growing up. Or do you not remember our first trip to America?”

Genji’s face falls comically fast. “Don’t you  _ dare _ ,” he says. 

“You’ve been in the States?” McCree asks, brows raised. 

“Only a couple of times. The first for us both was on a business trip with our father. The hotel had a complimentary bar in the lobby--”

“Hanzo!” Genji cries, shoving his brother by the shoulder. “I swear I’ll--”

“Then do not try to tell stories about me--”

“That’s not fair, you’ve got way more on me than--”

The argument rapidly devolves into more Japanese that McCree can’t follow. They both sound angry, but it’s clearly bravado. He knows this well: the kind of play-fighting that one only engages in with siblings. He sits with his coffee and just listens, privately amused, until other members of the team start to filter into the dining hall to start breakfast. When they arrive, Hanzo immediately shuts down, clearly uncomfortable. It is only a few minutes before he silently stands and leaves the room, taking his tea with him. 

Genji huffs a breath as he watches his brother leave. “Well,” he says. “It is an improvement. At least he did not start with you again.”

McCree rubs his right thumb over his left pinky, imagining the texture of a thin thread. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s somethin’.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: In which there is an awful lot of talking and Genji continues the trend of calling his brother a dick.
> 
> I wanted to take a sec and say thanks to everyone who's supported this fic! I've stopped responding to individual comments because there's just so many (and I feel like I'm artificially boosting my own comment count), but I read all of them and love each and everyone one you individually and platonically. Thanks so much!
> 
> ALSO: a (very brief) mention of vomiting around halfway through, if that really squicks you.

They have been sitting together in silence for the better part of ten minutes when Genji’s phone pings. Hanzo can’t tell who or what demands Genji’s attention, but after a moment, Genji says, “Brother, I have someone I would like you to meet.”

Hanzo has to restrain himself from making a face. Two weeks at Gibraltar has seen him meeting far too many new people, and it is becoming exhausting. It seems there has to be a minor spectacle when anyone new arrives to Overwatch. Yesterday saw the arrival of not one, but _two_ different pop culture icons who were barely more than children, yet somehow were qualified to fight as part of a specialized task force. For an organization that so desperately needs to be covert under threat of international scandal, they certainly don’t shy away from collecting anyone that can hold a weapon. And every new person who joins Overwatch is another individual who eventually learns about who Hanzo is: archer, former _yakuza_ , brother-murderer.

But things with Genji are tenuous on their best days. The last two weeks have seen improvement in their relationship, but it will take much more time before they even approach something comfortable. Arguing now will only set them further back. Despite his own reservations, Hanzo nods and gets to his feet.

They descend from the skybridge, a favored spot for them both, and Hanzo follows as Genji leads them toward the helipad on the other side of the base. They are halfway there before Hanzo finally brings himself to ask, “Who precisely am I meeting?”

“My mentor. He is finally coming from Nepal.” Genji’s voice, though overlaid with a robotic tone, is filled with barely-suppressed glee. “He has agreed to join Overwatch.”

Hanzo knows he has heard Genji mention his mentor before, but he cannot remember who he is until he notices Genji glancing at his left hand. “Your soulmate,” he says, unable to mask his surprise.

Genji nods. “The very same. I look forward to seeing him again. It has been some time.”

“I look forward to meeting whoever it was that got you to grow up. I’d like to congratulate him on performing a miracle.”

“Dick.”

A sleek carrier craft is already parked at the helipad by the time they arrive. Winston and Lena wait beside it, having designated themselves the official greeters of new arrivals. Lena waves, her smile cheerful and genuine as always; Genji waves back, but Hanzo keeps his hands at his sides. He can see Lena’s gaze slide over towards him, and the slightest dimming of her smile when he does not acknowledge her greeting.

“Good afternoon,” Winston says with a short bow of his head. “They’ve just arrived. I look forward to meeting this mentor of yours, Genji.”

“Thank you for welcoming him,” Genji replies. “I promise he will be an asset to the team.”

“I’m sure he will.”

The door on the side of the carrier gives a hiss as the air pressure equalizes with the outdoors, then slowly lifts upwards. There is enough time for Hanzo to glimpse the interior of the carrier--gray and sparse, almost simplistic--before someone steps into the doorway. Or, rather, they glide--the individual does not stand, but instead hovers, cross-legged, into view.

Hanzo stares without meaning to. He had expected someone human, but instead, he is presented with an omnic.

“Master Zenyatta,” Genji says, stepping forward. He brings his hands together as if in prayer and bows his head in greeting. The newcomer, Zenyatta, does the same.

“It is good to see you again, Genji,” says Zenyatta. His voice is even and soothing, even with the digital overlay typical of most omnics. “It has been far too long. I hope you are well.”

“I am. I am so glad you could join us. Overwatch will benefit greatly from your wisdom and experience.”

Hanzo listens to the exchange between his brother and the omnic with a sense of consternation. He has never heard his brother speak so calmly and with such great admiration. The last couple weeks of awkward conversation have hinted at Genji’s turn-around, but they are still nothing compared to the peaceful, honorable man in front of him. He is struck with the profound realization of just how long ten years is to have been apart.

Now, this omnic knows Genji better than Hanzo may ever do.

“Master Zenyatta, this is my brother, Hanzo,” Genji says, sweeping his hand out toward Hanzo as though he is proud of the man who all but killed him.

“Greetings,” Zenyatta says politely, giving a small bow. “I have heard much about you. I am pleased to finally meet you.” His faceplate is impassive, an expression of permanent contentment. Hanzo finds himself frustrated that he cannot tell whether Zenyatta is being sincere, or simply courteous for the sake of being a good guest.

He bows back, murmurs “Likewise,” and Zenyatta turns his attention to Winston and Lena. A dull roar fills Hanzo’s ears, blocking out the rest of the conversation taking place. Lena says something about the Shambali, and Winston mentions Overwatch, but Hanzo cannot comprehend what is being said over the rush of nauseating feelings of neglect and anger churning his stomach. Genji continues to converse with everyone pleasantly, oblivious to his sibling’s growing distress, which somehow only frustrates Hanzo more. For a moment, he cannot understand why he is feeling so strongly--until he finally pins down the old, unfamiliar feeling of jealousy.

Genji moved on from the disaster of ten years ago. He found a purpose and friends--a soulmate who changed him for the better. Meanwhile, Hanzo has only lived alone, wallowing in self-hatred and solitude, and is forever marked in a way that ensures he can never have real companionship.

Shame and embarrassment for his reaction mix with the other emotions warring in him, making him feel sick. He takes a step back from the group, then another.

“Hanzo?” Genji’s voice cuts through the noise. “Where are you--?”

“I must go,” Hanzo says quickly, turning on his heel. Genji calls after him as he strides away, but he ignores it, rounding the corner and ducking into a nearby building. He presses himself against the wall beside the doorway and listens; when it does not seem anyone has immediately followed him, he slouches back, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.

Wonderful. Now he’s caused a scene, and there will be no escaping Genji later. He breathes deeply, in for seven seconds and out for eight, trying and failing to clear his mind. Still, he repeats it, drawing desperately on old meditation techniques to calm him before he embarrasses himself further.

He does not know how long he stays there breathing, but he is surprised after some time by a gentle, “Are you well, my friend?” He lifts his head sharply and finds Zenyatta standing--floating? sitting?-- in the doorway beside him, expression of perpetual calm turned his way.

“You are not my friend,” Hanzo snaps, standing straight.

“My apologies. I did not mean to offend.” Zenyatta tilts his head slightly. The mannerism is precisely the same as what Genji does now, and the realization causes another flare of anger in Hanzo’s chest.

“You seem distressed by my presence,” Zenyatta says. “Have I done something to offend you?”

“We have barely spoken.”

“This is true, but I’m certain Genji has told me of you as much as he has spoken of you to me.”

“And what has he told you?” Hanzo snarls suddenly. He advances one step toward the omnic, fists clenching at his sides. He can feel the dragon spirits stir at his outburst, writhing under his skin in anticipation, feeding on his growing fury. “That I murdered him? That I am the reason why he is no longer human?”

“Among other things.” Zenyatta is completely unfazed. He folds his hands in his lap as he speaks. “He told me of an older brother whom he greatly admired. Someone who betrayed him, yes, but whose actions were forced by circumstances out of his control. Someone he eventually came to forgive, with time.”

“You know _nothing_.”

“I sense within you much of the same anger that Genji had when we met,” Zenyatta continues. “Anger at the world, at yourself, at the man you perceive yourself to be. Refusing to move on from the past and look forward to a future you can shape. If you would like, perhaps I could help--”

“I do not want your help!” Hanzo spits. “The fact that you are Genji’s soulmate does not mean you know a thing of me!” Yet Zenyatta’s words cut deep to the core because he is not wrong in the slightest.

Hanzo turns on his heel.before Zenyatta can say another word, clattering down the nearby stairwell with less grace than he usually affords. The omnic does not give chase, and Hanzo is quickly left alone in one of the dimly-lit hangars carved into the cliff.

The building is cool and, more importantly, empty. He breathes deeply, but the emotions still war within him unabated. He would train, work off the aggression, but his gear is back in the dorms and no doubt he would run into someone on the way.

So he weaves his way out of the hangar, out into the cliffs, and he climbs the narrow paths and sheer rock faces until the afternoon wears into evening.

 

\--

Once the hour is more appropriate, Hanzo dives into a bottle of _sake_ without a second thought. The first glass goes down quickly, as does the second. The third he savors while he waits for the first two to kick in. The _sake_ is cheap, tasting sharply of ethanol and little else, but it does the job. After the alcohol settles into his system, leaving him feeling pleasantly light, he stops pouring and sips from the bottle. He knows before he even finishes using the glass that he will regret this in the morning, but luckily, he is too far gone for that to be a real concern.

Fucking Genji, he thinks as he paces his quarters. And Zenyatta. An omnic is his brother’s soulmate, and Genji clearly has never been happier. He didn’t even realize omnics could have soulmates in the first place, let alone that Genji would find himself more at home among them.  

And Zenyatta thought he knew him, as though secondhand stories from Genji were enough to divine Hanzo’s thoughts and history. As though by virtue of being Genji’s soulmate meant that he could fix Hanzo, too--fix the man responsible for Genji’s state.

Meanwhile, his own soulmate was some _cowboy_ , some caricature of a man who refused to let him be, who was clearly lying to hide his disappointment in finding Hanzo. Hanzo growls another swear and swigs heavily from the bottle.

After an hour and a half, his dorm becomes too small, making him feel restless and his skin itch. He needs to move. Hanzo grabs his bow and quiver, fumbling once as he drunkenly hoists them over his shoulder, then retrieves his sake. He does not know where he will go. Maybe to the shooting range. Maybe just an open clifftop. Either way, he does not want to be unprepared, and he does not want to be bothered.

He presses the button to open the door and peeks his head out into the hall. All clear, as far as he can tell. Most of the team is probably finishing up dinner around now. If he is quick, he can dodge them before the spread across the base. Even drunk, he is ten times stealthier than anyone else on this team. It is a wonder they got anything done that did not require charging in like an armed battalion of five.

Unfortunately, there is also a small measure of luck in stealth, and that luck fails him when he steps outside and collides with someone’s tall, broad chest.

“Whoa there,” says the someone, gently gripping him by his shoulders. Hanzo curses as he realizes luck as betrayed him further by allowing him to be found by McCree. Between the strings, his luck, and everything else, Hanzo is convinced that the universe’s governing forces are determined to put him with this man until either it works or they kill each other.

“You alright there, Shimada?” McCree asks, holding him out at arm’s length. His gaze flickers over Hanzo’s body once before refocusing on his face. It is not secret to Hanzo that McCree finds him attractive, but that is somehow all the more infuriating.

“Fine,” he mutters in response, moving to step around McCree. He missteps and stumbles, and McCree grabs him around the shoulders and hauls him back upright.

“You sure?” McCree looks down with a concerned frown. “‘Cause you’re drunker than a skunk right now.”

Hanzo narrows his eyes. “Skunks do not drink.”

“It got the point across. Somethin’ happen to bring this on?”

“It is not of your concern.” Hanzo tries to move away again, but McCree drags him back.

“It kinda is,” McCree argues, “since I can’t in good faith let you go stick yourself on an arrow while you’re drunk.”

Hanzo scoffs. “I am more than skilled enough to avoid ‘sticking myself.’”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone says, right before they’re in the hospital.” McCree gives him a gentle push backwards, trying to steer him down the hall. “Let’s just get you back to your room--”

“You do not control me!” Hanzo snarls. He strikes out with his free hand and gets McCree’s flesh wrist in a biting grip, twisting his arm down forcefully. McCree yelps and follows through with the movement, leaving himself awkwardly hunched over at the angle. Hanzo only gets a moment of self-satisfaction, however, before McCree rips his hand away, grabs Hanzo’s forearm, and twists so quickly that Hanzo has no chance to counter. He is shoved front-first against the corridor wall with his arm wrenched behind his back, his other hand pinned to the wall beside his body. The _sake_ bottle clatters somewhere to the floor behind him, eventually rolling into his view.

“Shit, well, there that goes,” McCree says as the _sake_ spills across the tile.

“A waste,” Hanzo grumbles, feeling oddly put-out despite the situation he’s in. He tries to wiggle out of McCree’s grip, but McCree is surprisingly strong and has the advantages of both weight and sobriety.

“Well, partner, I imagine you’re a real good fighter,” McCree says mildly, “but so am I, and I can actually walk in a straight line. Don’t throw punches if you can’t handle the fight.”

Hanzo stares down the hallway stubbornly. “I could kill you easily,” he replies sourly.

“I’ll bet, but not right now.” McCree sighs, shifts slightly without letting Hanzo have any wiggle room. “Look, fine, you don’t have to go back to the dorm or whatever. But since you like shootin’ things and climbin’ cliffs, I’m not just gonna let you wander outside, either.”

“It is not your business what I choose to do in my free time.”

“Nah, but Genji’ll kick my ass if I let you kill yourself.” There’s a moment of hesitation, then McCree says, “Come on. Take a walk with me. Don’t gotta talk if you don’t wanna, but it might clear your head a bit.”

The thought makes Hanzo feel like a child being herded by an exasperated father, but at least it’s conducive to his goal of getting out of the stifling dorms. He nods, and McCree lets him free from the wall. A chill prickles his skin as air rushes in to fill the space where McCree stood.

Hanzo allows McCree to lead him through the dorms and through a handful of buildings. Hanzo quickly realizes where he is being led before they arrive, but is still surprised when they step out onto the comm tower skybridge. The sun is setting now, casting vibrant shades of orange over the calm seas at the horizon and taking its warmth with it. The air is sticky and humid from the ocean, but still a welcome reprieve from the stale, artificial quality of the indoors. Hanzo breathes deep the salt in the air and feels something loosen in his chest, his earlier anger slipping out and dissipating as it does.

McCree plops himself down on the edge of the bridge, letting his legs dangle freely over, and looks expectantly up at Hanzo. After a moment, Hanzo carefully sits beside him, crossing his legs while McCree holds up a hand until he is steady. Once satisfied that Hanzo won’t tip over to his death (as though he would be so careless, even inebriated), McCree digs around in his pockets and produces one of the many cigarillos he always seems to be smoking.

“So,” McCree says as he flicks open a lighter. “Mind if I ask what set this whole thing off?”

“I do mind, yes.”

McCree shrugs, pockets the lighter again, and puffs his cigarillo. The smoke smells of burnt cloves and something green that Hanzo can’t identify--more fragrant than the cigarettes that are more common fare. He doesn’t care for it, and yet the scent is already familiar to him, almost comforting for the familiarity.

They sit together in silence for several minutes, McCree preoccupied with his vice and Hanzo with his thoughts. After a little while, McCree produces a flask from somewhere on his person, takes a sip, then offers it to Hanzo.

“Probably shouldn’t, since you’re already so shit-faced,” McCree says, “but I can’t be totally sober for this either, and I feel bad if I don’t share.”

Hanzo takes the offered flask and sniffs at the contents. Whiskey, of course. As if it would be anything else for a cowboy. He takes a quick mouthful and holds it, letting it burn down his throat, before passing back the flask. McCree takes another drink before capping the flask and setting it between them.

A few more minutes pass. Hanzo reaches for the flask, brings it to his lips to drink, then finds himself saying, “I met Genji’s soulmate today.”

McCree blinks at him a couple of times but, to his credit, seems otherwise unsurprised. “Ah, yeah. That Zenyatta guy, right? I met him earlier, too. Seems real nice.”

“Yes,” Hanzo says bitterly. “He does.” He drinks deeply, then sets the flask down again. Wouldn’t do to overstep the bounds of McCree’s generosity.

“What, you don’t like him?”

“I . . .” Hanzo struggles to find the words. “He is fine, as an individual. I do not dislike _him_. But I have never heard Genji speak to anyone as he did to Zenyatta. They are clearly very close, and Zenyatta has helped my brother immensely. He is not a bad soulmate.”

“So it ain’t Zenyatta, it’s what he is to Genji that bothers you.”

Hanzo turns an incredulous look on McCree. McCree chuckles and continues, “Yeah, I ain’t as dumb as you think.”

“I never said--”

“Didn’t have to, darlin’. I know what people think of me. I don’t mind. Means they underestimate me most of the time.” He blows out smoke in a dark stream, watching as it dissipates into the night air. “That’s not important right now, though.”

Hanzo looks back out across the base. The view from the comm bridge doesn’t stretch far, cut off by a building less than a hundred feet away, but the vantage is still appreciable. “Yes, I suppose so,” he admits. “I spent ten years believing Genji to be dead. I’ve attempted to atone in every way I know how, honored him every year at the family shrine, and made little progress for it. Yet he meets one person and becomes a different man entirely. And then he tells me he forgives me for what I did.”

He flexes his hands in his lap, resisting the urge to grab at the flask again. “And Zenyatta approached me, told me I am just like Genji was. As though he could help me. As though _meditation_ will undo my mistakes.”

McCree hums in sympathy. “I doubt he meant it that way,” he says. “Helpin’ Genji didn’t mean undoin’ anything, far as I can tell. It was just about learnin’ to deal with what happened.”

He is silent for a moment, then says, “I was in a gang when I was a kid.” He waits for Hanzo to lift his head, acknowledging him, then continues, “Did a lot of horrible shit. Stole everything that wasn’t nailed down. Traded weapons. Killed people. I was fifteen and ran away from home because I thought I had a better shot at life with a gang than with my family.”

He taps a bit of ash over the edge of the bridge. “I can’t undo that,” he says. “And that was hard to accept, but I did, and I turned my ass around in Overwatch and started doin’ something good instead. Gave back to the world instead of takin’ from it. Realized that drinkin’ my way into an early grave and hatin’ myself wouldn’t help, not that I didn’t try for years.”

Hanzo bristles. “You do not know my experiences,” he says.

“Well, no, I don’t. I never had to face the people I hurt and they sure as hell never came back to life, far as I know. But the core of it’s still the same, ain’t it?”

It is, Hanzo has to admit. Their stories are similar: horrible mistakes made when they were young, followed by a desperate bid for redemption. McCree may be the only person he has met who has even an inkling of the challenges he faces. He looks down at the red string between them, stretched along the empty expanse of walkway between them, and thinks that finally, he may understand just a fraction of what a soulmate is meant to be.

“Anyway,” McCree finishes, flicking the stub of his cigarillo over the edge, “the real important part is that you realize what you did and are workin’ for somethin’ better. I respect that you’ve been tryin’, whether or not it feels like you’ve gone anywhere.”

“Why are you doing this?” Hanzo asks abruptly. His head spins with alcohol and emotion. He closes his eyes, turning away.

“Doin’ what?”

“Acting as though I am worth your time. Showing me this kindness. Is it just because I am supposed to be your soulmate? I am hardly worthy of it. I told you when we met that it was better if--” He dares to look up, and the words die in his throat at the sight of the soft, understanding look McCree is giving him.

“So that’s what this is about?” he asks. “Look, this whole thing ain’t about deservin’ anything. Is it so hard to believe that I might just like you as a person?”

“You should not,” Hanzo insists. “It is unbelievable enough that Genji claims to have _forgiven_ me. I do not know what you expect from me, but I cannot give it. You barely know me.”

“Not for lack of tryin’.” McCree sighs and looks up at the sky. Night has taken over now, and the stars are coming out in full, smatterings of brightness against the dark blue sky. Hanzo looks up, too, but finds little to reassure him.

“Mamá used to tell me,” McCree says, “that soulmates ain’t about what we want, or what we think we deserve. They’re what we _need_. Sometimes, that’s just someone you like a whole lot and want to spend all your time around. Sometimes that’s somebody who gets you through the hard times when you can’t do it alone. Most of the time it’s a significant other, but sometimes it’s a teacher, or a real good friend, or whatever form they come in.”

“And sometimes,” he finishes, pinning Hanzo with a meaningful gaze, “it’s someone who knows exactly what you’re goin’ through because they did it, too.”

Hanzo tries to speak but finds no words. A lump forms in his throat, holding back anything he might say. McCree smiles at him, warm and genuine, unbothered by Hanzo’s embarrassing inability to speak. “So,” he says, “I guess I’m here to be whatever you think you need, which I guess is mostly just a kick in the ass right now.”

“And what of you?” Hanzo asks, choosing to ignore McCree’s comment for the time being. “What could you possibly need of me?”

“Right now? I don’t rightly know,” McCree says. He tips his hat cheekily. “But a man can always use another friend.”

Hanzo nods once, though he doesn’t fully understand. There is nothing he can offer, other than sarcasm and an exercise in controlling drunks. And yet, for some reason, McCree seems to want to be around him. He has persisted for two weeks, despite everything. Perhaps he is just interested in hopeless men.

The world spins again, and Hanzo groans without meaning to as he drops his head into his hands. The alcohol has caught up to him far too quickly, and combined with the emotional drainage of the last hour, he wants nothing more than his bed. He would be embarrassed if he weren’t so exhausted.

He hears McCree chuckle beside him, and the scraping of boots as he gets to his feet. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” he says. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed before you pass out up here.”

Hanzo lets McCree pull him to his feet, but draws the line at being led along by the sleeve and bats away McCree’s hand. He stumbles again, but manages to keep himself upright as they make their way back to the dorms. He half-expects more coddling or more life advice when they stop outside his room, but McCree just says, “G’night, Shimada,” tips his hat again, and leaves Hanzo standing outside.

Hanzo sheds his unused gear and collapses onto his bed with a groan. His head swims and his stomach is churning threateningly, but he falls asleep almost immediately.

For once, he dreams of nothing at all.

 

\--

 

The next morning sees Gibraltar bathed in bright golden sunshine, streaming through Hanzo’s window and directly into his eyes. He is, predictably, more hungover than he has been in several years, and the pleasant weather feels like a direct attack on his poor choices. He rolls over in bed and drags a pillow over his head, which helps with the light sensitivity, but still does nothing for the throbbing headache or the roiling nausea.

He lays in bed for half an hour trying to will the illness away, until his stomach gives a heave and he forces himself out of bed. He spends the next ten minutes bowed over the toilet, and another five trying to scrape himself into a presentable human being before he ventures out in search of tea and painkillers. The best he manages is washing his face, dragging a comb through his hair, and a clean t-shirt, which will just have to do.

Hanzo opens the door, then stops up short. On the floor in front of his room sits a plastic tray, with a scrap of paper, a cup of green tea, and four round, red tablets of ibuprofen. His stomach gives a protest as he leans down to retrieve the tray, but luckily it behaves.

The paper is a note, with handwriting that is nearly an illegible scrawl. Hanzo has to squint to read it:

 

_Thought I’d save you the trip. Take it easy, partner._

 

_\--Jesse_

 

It takes him a moment to remember who “Jesse” is, but when he does, he can’t help smiling with the faint warmth that blossoms in his chest.

The tea is lukewarm and oversteeped, but he drinks the entire cup nonetheless.

Hanzo spends the first half of the day primarily in bed, sleeping off the worst of the hangover. When afternoon rolls around, the pounding headache and constant nausea have subsided enough that he can walk without wanting to die in a dramatic fashion. He dresses more appropriately in a dark _gi_ and ties his hair back, then strikes out into the base, a man on a mission.

Athena politely informs him that Winston is currently in the comm room. Hanzo thanks the AI and strides off, determined to find Winston before he can change his mind.

The door to the comm room slides open as he approaches, revealing a dark-walled room with a wide, circular table. The entirety of Overwatch is gathered around the table. Winston and Angela are at the front of the room, a holographic display projected onto the wall behind them. When Hanzo enters the room, the full team simultaneously turns their heads to look at him.

“Ah, Shimada,” Winston says, sounding surprised. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Hanzo is aware of everyone’s eyes on him. He forces himself to only meet Winston’s gaze. “I wish to join Overwatch,” he announces.

“Oh!” Winston says, visibly taken aback now. “Oh, I see. Well, we certainly won’t turn you away. We’re just--” He gestures awkwardly at the gathered team.

“But if you are serious about joining,” Angela cuts in, “Then you should join us. We’re just discussing protocol updates, but it will be important. We can do all the paperwork and such when we’re through, if that’s alright.”

“Of course.” Hanzo’s determination dims a bit, replaced by awkwardness. “I--apologize for interrupting.”

“It’s no trouble.” Angela smiles warmly, and Hanzo finds he actually believes her. “Just go ahead and have a seat. Someone can fill you in on what you missed later. Now, as I was saying . . .”

Hanzo glances around the table as Angela launches back into the joint lecture. There’s an empty seat between Mei and McCree. Mei smiles at him, and McCree gives him a wide grin and a wave. Hanzo carefully sits, still feeling like he is being overly observed even as most of the others have turned their attention back to the presentation.

McCree leans in close, pitching his voice low to avoid drawing attention. “Surprised you’re even able to get up after last night,” he teases.

“I can handle a simple hangover,” Hanzo says dryly. Aware that he is being ungrateful, he clears his throat and adds, “But thank you for the tea.”

“Ain’t no thing, darlin’.”

On his right side, Mei slides a scrap of paper in his direction. She has a notebook in front of her with neat, detailed notes, the corner of the page missing.

 _Welcome to Overwatch!_ ❤ reads the note, complete with heart. Hanzo can’t help the huff of laughter that bubbles forth. He mouths “thank you” in Mei’s direction, and she beams.

“Would you look at that,” McCree says. “You _can_ laugh. You’re full of surprises, Shimada.”

“Hanzo.”

“What’s that?”

“You may call me Hanzo.”

Hanzo watches as another smile unfolds on McCree’s face, slow and sincere. “Alright then, Hanzo,” McCree says, rolling Hanzo’s name over on his tongue like one would a fine whiskey. It sounds right, somehow, coming from McCree’s mouth, like listening to the voice of an old friend after years apart.

Hanzo tears his gaze away to regard the rest of the team--his team. Most of them are focused on the presentation, but he catches Lena’s eye, and she winks and makes a finger-pistol gesture at him. Hana is engrossed in her phone, but spares him a brief glance and a half-hearted smile. Lucio gives him a thumbs-up. Genji has taken off his visor, and his expression is one of pure pride.

He looks down at his hand on the table, looking at the red string that loops around on itself between himself and McCree. For the first time in years, the thread feels just a little less like a noose.

 

\--

 

As soon as the meeting concludes, Hanzo is swept up in the onboarding process for new agents. He stands by while his profile is created in Athena’s files, is given a PIN and an agent ID number to memorize, and handed a soft iron-on cloth patch of the Overwatch logo. “Not really standard-issue anymore,” Winston explains of the patch, “but just in case we get around to it again.” Hanzo has no intention of ruining a perfectly good _gi_ with a brightly-colored patch that will identify him as Overwatch to anyone with eyes, but he still pockets it for safekeeping.

That evening sees the team running drills in the simulation arena, testing the newcomers’ abilities and begin designing strategies to incorporate their skills. Here, Hanzo allows himself to finally forget about everything but the simulated mission, losing himself in the adrenaline of the fight, the focus on his targets, the pleasant burn of his muscles as he pulls the bowstring tight. The chatter over his newly-issued earpiece is unfamiliar, but grounds him to the moment. Everyone mostly banters, interjecting their conversation with occasional updates or warnings, so Hanzo does not interrupt. Still, it is strangely pleasing to hear the background noise of a team in-motion. They compliment each other freely, and even though Hanzo rarely responds, he lets himself take a little pride with each piece of praise directed his way.

When Athena calls the final drill to an end, declaring their fictional mission a success, Hanzo slides down from his rooftop perch, bow still in hand. The rest of the team trickles in from various points around the arena, coalescing near the entrance.

“Yo, that was great!” Lucio crows, gliding by on brightly-colored hard-light skates. He spins and skates backwards, grinning back at Hanzo. “You and those arrows, man. That was some kind of Legolas shooting out there!”

Hanzo doesn’t understand the reference, but he gives a brief smile nonetheless. “Thank you,” he replies. “You were surprisingly skilled as well.”

“Now that’s a backhanded compliment if I ever heard one,” Lucio laughs, already turning away to hail the next nearest person. The man is compact positive energy in a colorful package, almost enough to rival Lena. It almost exhausts Hanzo just to watch him.

That is nothing, of course, compared to the bone-jarring slap on the back Reinhardt gives him in passing, which leaves him almost gasping for breath. Reinhardt’s laughter is booming as he saunters away to the rest of the team, and almost manages to cover Genji’s amused chuckles as he takes Reinhardt’s place beside his brother.

“I see you’ve made some new friends,” he says, switching over to the familiar Japanese that suits them better for casual conversation. He pats Hanzo on the back where Reinhardt’s hand had come down seconds earlier, and Hanzo only stops himself from groaning through sheer force of will.

“I would not say friends,” he replies.

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Genji sighs, but there is no real dismay behind it. “Well. We’ll give it time.”

The rest of Overwatch has gathered near the entrance to the arena, conversing in splintered groups. Hanzo doesn’t need his red string to track McCree, who is engaged in boisterous conversation with Angela and Reinhardt. The conversation is lost in the din of several voices, but by the gestures and laughter, it seems likely he’s telling another story.

“So,” Genji says, “You’ve truly decided to join Overwatch, then?”

“So it seems.”

“I am glad. We could use you. I do not know how many others will answer the recall, but snipers are few and far between. Not that any could compare to your skills, I’m sure.”

Hanzo smirks softly. “Flattery will not get you anywhere, Genji.”

“You liar. You’re more prideful than an actual dragon.” Genji chuckles at his own joke and follows Hanzo’s gaze out to the team. “So what convinced you to join? Surely not just me, despite all my best efforts.”

Hanzo shrugs, but it is halfhearted. “Despite its naive ideals of heroism, Overwatch is honorable enough in its intentions,” he replies. “Perhaps it is time for me to dedicate myself to a cause again.”

Genji is silent for a moment. Hanzo watches McCree as he breaks out into laughter, all but buckled over. In this lighting, his brown eyes flash the color of copper, bright and keen.

“Right,” Genji says. “That’s definitely all it is.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yells about taking forever to write
> 
> Unrelated to that: a little while ago I officially marked Threads as being seven chapters long, so that means we're just over the halfway point! That's great and also a little terrifying! (I know it's not that long, but it's still pretty great to me.)

“Tell me . . . beer.”

“ _Píjiǔ_. What about . . . scientist?

“ _Científico._ Or, for you, _científica_. Cowboy?”

“Um . . . _niúzǎi_. Snow?”

“ _Nieve._ ” McCree leans back in his seat, humming as he tries to think of another word for Mei to translate. He comes up blank, and with a groan, he drops his head back on the seat. “How much longer is this damn flight gonna be?” he whines.

“It is only half an hour,” says Hanzo from his perch on the other bench a few feet away. His eyes don’t leave his datapad as he scrolls through pages of Japanese text. “Surely you can wait that long.”

“Yeah, but it’s been like five hours already.”

“I feel you,” says Lúcio on the other side of the shuttle, rolling a basketball back and forth under his foot. “I can’t wait to get out there.”

The flight to Siberia has been a few weeks in the making. The flight is taking a full team of six--Hanzo, McCree, Mei, Lúcio, Tracer, and Reinhardt--into Russia to meet with a contact in the Russian Defense Forces. Winston has promised that, despite the distance, it will be a fairly simple mission, based around recon regarding the reactivated Siberian omnium. Still, it promises to be a busy and important assignment, which has had everyone itching to get out into the fray. McCree is particularly excited to finally do something that doesn’t involve watching a payload for seven hours, which makes the flight all the more unbearable.

He sits up again and nudges Hanzo in the leg with the tip of his boot. “C’mon, get in the game,” he says. “Tell me something in Japanese.”

“I am busy.”

“You’re just _readin’_.”

“Again, I am busy.” Even though Hanzo keeps his gaze resolutely on his data pad, McCree can see a smile fighting to be known at the corner of his mouth.

It has been slightly more than a month since Hanzo first arrived in Gibraltar, and the change in him has been nothing short of astounding. He is certainly still a prickly member of the team and prefers his solitude, but it’s as though the act of joining flipped a switch nonetheless. McCree has caught him numerous times in the common areas on the base, simply lounging or engaged in conversation with others. He has fit in almost seamlessly as a member of the team during simulations, and blown everyone away with his abilities during his early low-stakes missions. It’s a remarkable improvement, one that McCree prides himself in having a hand in. Hell, Hanzo has actively sought him out on a few occasions, to talk or drink or compete at the shooting range. He could comfortably call them friends now.

Granted, there’s still the matter of their soulmate status, but they’re getting there. Slowly. So slowly that McCree’s starting to wonder if he’s expecting too much, because his own feelings are taking a decidedly non-platonic turn. He expected that, but he had hoped by now that Hanzo would be a little more open to the idea. Or anything, really.

It hurts a little, but he keeps it to himself. Slowly, slowly.

“C’mon, just one,” McCree urges. “Tell me ‘cowboy.’”

A call alert pops up on Hanzo’s datapad. _“_ Fine. _Yōchina otoko,”_ he says to McCree, tapping at the alert. He sets the pad aside and turns away from McCree as the call comes in over his earpiece, launching into rapid Japanese. Must be Genji, then.

Mei starts giggling into her hand. “What?” McCree asks, turning back to her. “What’s so funny?”

“That wasn’t ‘cowboy’ that he said,” she answers between giggles.

“What? What did he say, then?” When Mei refuses to answer, he turns to Hanzo. “Hey, what the hell did you call me--”

Hanzo holds up one finger in the universal “one moment, please” gesture, and McCree groans again. “God, you are all the worst. I didn’t even know you knew Japanese, Mei.”

“Just a little. It helps when you talk to so many other scientists.”

“ _Heya loves, this is your pilot speaking_ ,” Tracer’s voice says cheerily over the PA. “ _Landing in about twenty minutes, so get yourselves together and someone wake up Reinhardt._ ”

“On it,” Lúcio chuckles, hauling himself to his feet to wake up the large man, who has been tucked into an undersized bench to sleep for most of the flight.

“Finally,” McCree sighs. A thought occurs to him, and he looks to Mei. “Hey, shortstuff. Your string still pointin’ towards where we’re going?”

Mei glances down at her hand, then nods slowly. “Yes,” she replies. “I don’t want to get my hopes up, but it’s been pretty steady this whole time. Do you think I’ll finally meet them?”

“Well, I can’t tell ya for sure, but Overwatch has always been pretty good for that kinda thing. Who knows?” McCree gets to his feet, stretching his arms behind his back with an indulgent groan. “Whoever it is will certainly be lucky to have you, though, that I can say for sure.”

Mei’s response is cut off by a sharp, angry-sounding outburst from Hanzo. McCree turns just in time to see Hanzo rip off his comm and shove it in his pants pocket.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Hanzo replies instantly.

“Don’t sound like nothin’.”

Hanzo lets out a slow, deep breath. After a moment, he answers, his voice pitched low for McCree’s ears only. “Genji keeps pestering me to meditate with him and Zenyatta. I have already told him no multiple times. He thinks I am being stubborn for the sake of it.”

“Yeah, that don’t sound like you at all,” McCree says dryly, which earns him a glare. “Well, I’m just sayin’. Zenyatta’s important to him, Genji’s important to you.Seems like one meditation session couldn’t hurt if it’ll smooth some ruffled feathers.”

Hanzo grits his teeth and says nothing else. McCree lets him be.

The shuttle touches down gently twenty minutes later. They disembark onto an asphalt airstrip, surrounded on all sides by gray, barren tundra and banks of deep snow. Despite his _serape_ layered over a puffy winter coat and his chaps, McCree shivers. He glances over at Hanzo, who, aside from actually wearing both sleeves of his _gi_ , doesn’t appear to have dressed for the weather.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

“I am fine.”

“You don’t even have a coat.”

“I have thermal layers underneath. As I said, I am fine.” In spite of this, Hanzo crosses his arms over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits. McCree rolls his eyes, but leaves the man to his stubbornness. At least everyone else had the sense to dress warm; Reinhardt and Tracer have identical standard-issue coats from Overwatch’s glory days, Mei is always dressed for the arctic, and Lúcio seems to be wearing his own merchandise. Still, everyone looks a bit uncomfortable, and he can hardly blame them.

A large military truck rumbles down the airstrip and comes to a halt a few feet away. Despite knowing that this has to be their contact, McCree’s fingers twitch toward his gun. Beside him, Hanzo’s eyes are narrowed in suspicion. At least he’s not the only one who’s a bit paranoid. Mei, however, keeps glancing with wide eyes between her left hand and the truck.

“Oh gosh,” she whispers as the truck door opens.

The woman who steps out matches the description given by Winston: easily six and a half feet tall and built like a tank, towering over everyone except Reinhardt. Her hair is cropped short at the sides and combed to the side in spikes, dyed a vivid shade of pink that stands out brightly against the gray winter backdrop. Despite the cold, she only wears a coat and fatigues, tucked into heavy black boots. She grins as she speaks, her voice thickly accented.

“ _Privyet_ ,” she says with a jaunty wave as she approaches. “You are the Overwatch team, yes?”

“I reckon so,” McCree replies with a little tip of his hat. “Zaryanova?”

“Just Zarya, please.”

“Whoa man, I know you,” Lúcio says. “You’re that weightlifter, right? The one who had to drop out? You were huge!”

Zarya laughs softly. “Yes, that was me,” she says. “But my home needed me more.”

They introduce themselves one by one. Reinhardt immediately challenges Zarya to an arm-wrestling match to happen as soon as they get to base, which she accepts with a laugh. The others accept a handshake and give their names in good grace--except for Mei, who has her hands clutched tight to her chest.

“Mei,” McCree urges gently. “You alright there?”

“I, um--” Mei stammers, her eyes wide and locked on Zarya. A blush rushes into her cheeks. “Yes. I just, um--”

Zarya looks at her oddly and starts to turn away, then pauses, gaze flickering down as though noticing something in the corner of her eye. She raises her left hand, looks at Mei, and then abruptly straightens. A faint pink stains her cheeks as well, a pale match to her hair.

McCree chuckles. “Well I’ll be,” he says. “Told you Overwatch was good for finding your soulmate.”

Mei doesn’t appear to hear him, too focused on the woman before her. She abruptly shoves out her hand for a handshake. “I’m Mei!” she announces, too loudly. “Mei-ling Zhou!”

Zarya laughs nervously, her previously confident demeanor quickly turning to something that is surprisingly shy for her appearance. She has to bend down to take Mei’s hand in hers. “Is good to meet you,” she says. “I . . . realize this is an awkward time, since you are here on mission, but . . .”

“It’s okay!” Mei squeaks. She seems to shrink down into the hood of her coat, half-hidden in the fluffy collar. “We can talk about it later. It’s fine. The mission’s really important.”

“But so is this!” Reinhardt cries, dropping a hand on Mei’s head. “You’ve found your soulmate! We will make time for you to talk, _fraulein_. Let us take care of the rest.”

“Yeah, congratulations!” Lena chirps. “Don’t worry. We’ll have time for both.”

As Lúcio chips in his own congratulations and everyone does the requisite fawning over the new pair, McCree looks on with a wistful smile. Despite standing next to his own soulmate, he can’t help but feel a little pang of jealousy watching Mei and Zarya all flustered and giddy. A little part of him always thought it might look a bit like this when he finally met his mate, and instead . . .

He glances at Hanzo, expecting him to be disdainful of the entire event. Instead, he catches Hanzo watching, his expression one of quiet contemplation.

 

\--

 

“Should we not be preparing for the mission tomorrow?”

“We’ve already _done_ that,” McCree tells Hanzo, reaching down to grab two more beers. “We know what we’re doin’. Sneak in close as we can, take out any bots in the way, try to figure out why the omnium’s tryin’ to kill people again. Easy.”

Despite the disapproving twist to his mouth, Hanzo takes the beer when it’s offered to him. “Yes, the plans are set,” he says, “but there is still training, reviewing the maps--”

“Oh, you don’t even want to do that,” McCree laughs, lounging back in his chair. He pops the cap off his beer with his metal thumb. “You’re just lookin’ for a reason to not have fun ‘cause you don’t know how to do it.”

Hanzo scoffs, but the smile on his face betrays his attempt at disdain. He opens his beer and takes a healthy swig. “That is hardly the case,” he says.

McCree shakes his head. He gestures to the rest of the room with his bottle. “C’mon,” he says. “The pre-mission bullshit _is_ preparing for the mission. You gotta relax a bit, unwind before you throw yourself out there in the mornin’. Besides, it’s like an Overwatch tradition.”

They did do all of the debriefing as soon as they arrived to the RDF bunker, cementing the plan of attack and discussing the situation. The Siberian omnium had reactivated a short time ago without warning, producing hostile omnics that threatened the nearby towns, including Zarya’s home village. The Russian Defense Forces were on the front lines, but it left nobody to properly investigate the omnium. Enter Overwatch, who would attempt to get as close as possible and look for any outsider influences. Winston had been particularly concerned about Talon, whom he said already employed a number of “interesting” individuals and wouldn’t shy away from reactivating and co-opting an omnium for their purposes.

Now, however, the rest of the team is scattered around the room, drinks in hand and engaged in casual conversation. The only ones not actively involved are Mei and Zarya, who have tucked themselves into a table in the corner and are actively speaking in low, private voices.

    “I would not know,” says Hanzo. “I spent most of my time before mercenary jobs either gathering intel or meditating.”

    “Well that sounds dull.” Hanzo doesn’t respond, and McCree fills the void with a deep draw of his beer. He turns to watch the new couple in the corner. The two have been nigh-inseparable since they met, and although McCree can’t hear what’s being said now, he can see the wide grin on Mei’s face as she giggles into her glass, and Zarya’s restrained smile paired with the oddly adorable pink of her cheeks. It’s a meeting straight out of Hollywood films.

“Is it true what you said about Overwatch earlier?” asks Hanzo, startling McCree out of his thoughts. Guiltily, he turns away from the corner pair, abruptly aware of how inappropriate it probably is to stare.

“Dunno, probably. I say a lot of things about Overwatch. Which thing?”

“About it being ‘good’ for soulmates. It sounds as though many matches are made here.” Hanzo keeps his tone light, but McCree can’t shake the feeling that Hanzo’s motivations run deeper than simple curiosity.

“Oh yeah, loads,” Lena interrupts, leaning across the metal coffee table and into their conversation. She sets aside her own beer, propping herself on her elbows to address them. “Probably half the team was involved with each other back in the day! We all traveled so much that it was really easy to run into your soulmates.”

“Plus, if you were involved with Overwatch, chances were you’d be matched with someone else who was into the same thing,” McCree adds. “Fate was probably tryin’ to be kind by not matchin’ an international soldier with a florist in the suburbs.”

“Although I think that happened once,” Lena says thoughtfully.

“Did any of you ever meet yours that way?” asks Lúcio, sidling up beside Lena.

Lena sighs, dropping her chin into her hand. “Not me,” she replies wistfully. “I’m still waiting. Kinda hoping maybe somebody will show up with Overwatch back in action.”

“Yeah, I kinda feel the same,” Lúcio agrees. He holds up a gloved hand, wiggling his fingers. “I mean, I got two strings. _Somebody’s_ gotta come along, right? But at the same time, I got the music to keep me company until then. No reason to worry about it.”

“Morrisson and Reyes were matched, I know that,” McCree says. “I think Ana was attached with them in some way, but that woman would’ve shot me in the ass if I tried to ask.” He thinks back to the old commanders, back in the heyday of Overwatch. Before it all went to hell, before Jack’s promotion caused a schism between him and Reyes that would never be fixed--red strings be damned. Before Ana disappeared and the Swiss headquarters exploded and all of that ceased to matter . . .

“And then there’s those two,” Lena says with a mischievous grin, jerking her thumb towards the couch where McCree and Hanzo are perched. Hanzo visibly starts, giving Lena an incredulous, annoyed look. McCree winces, although he’s secretly pleased by the reminder.

Lúcio laughs aloud. “Really?” he asks with a matching grin, looking between the two. “Wow. I would _not_ have guessed. I mean, congrats and all, that’s great, but seriously?”

McCree laughs self-consciously into his drink. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “It’s a real riot.”

“It is also not your business,” Hanzo adds sourly.

“Aw, lighten up. It ain’t like everybody else don’t know about it.” He nudges Hanzo in the shin with the toe of his boot. Then he does a double-take when he catches Hanzo _blushing_. Hanzo tries to look away to hide it, but McCree sees the pale pink settling on the crest of his high cheekbones, and for a moment, he swears his heart stops.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until he hears Lena and Lúcio giggling. “Told you,” says Lena. McCree clacks the bottle against his teeth in his rush to look casual by drinking.

“Inappropriate,” mutters Hanzo. Something in McCree’s chest gives a little twist. Hanzo has become a good friend in the last month, but his apparent disdain for the strings remains. Does Hanzo truly hate the idea of him as a soulmate so much?

He downs the rest of his beer, trying to drown the thought.

 

\--

 

They set out early the next morning, piled into one military truck. Zarya has decided to accompany them, being the only one who knows her way around the omnium and the surrounding tundra, and takes up driving. Mei rides shotgun--after some convincing--while everyone else piles into the back, and the truck strikes out.

The drive takes the better part of an hour, following a single-lane asphalt road across a flat, snow-covered landscape. McCree looks out the window as they ride, listening to the merry chatter of Mei and Zarya that floats back from the cab of the truck. Despite the snow and the gray, the flat horizon smattered with occasional low-lying shrubs reminds him of the sun-baked deserts of New Mexico. It makes him a little homesick for the first time in years. He chats idly with Hanzo about their respective hometowns for most of the drive, until he notices the snowy ground give way to sleek steel and concrete structures.

The omnium is a large compound, according to the maps they reviewed the previous night, comprised of several satellite buildings surrounding the major production plant. Zarya parks the truck near the edge of the compound and pulls out a data pad as everyone disembarks.

“The omnics are being rebuilt here,” she says, circling the main plant with a red line. “We will not get too close. These are smaller labs near to the edge, where we think any records will be kept.” She marks two buildings side-by-side with Xs, two kilometers away from their current position. “In and out in an hour. Destroy any omnics we find. Easy.” She grins, apparently pleased by the prospect of finding omnics to take down.

“You said there ain’t anyone comin’ in and outta here, right?” McCree says, leaning in to read the map more closely.

“Yes. We still do not know if anyone is involved. Is why you are here.”

“Are we not at risk for being caught, if omnics are still in production?” asks Hanzo.

“Most omnics are on the front lines. Should not be many here. If they are, we can take them, and there is team on stand-by just in case.”

“Then let us go!” Reinhardt booms. McCree wonders at the logical decision-making behind bringing the loud man onto a recon mission. “We have a job to do and glory to win!”

Zarya laughs and slaps him on the back. “You are correct, comrade. Let’s go.”

With Zarya and Reinhardt at the head, they strike out into the compound proper. Lúcio sticks close to the point, equidistant to anyone on the team who may need medical attention. Lena and Mei flank one side some fifty feet away, and McCree takes up the other flank with Hanzo beside him. Lúcio’s music filtering over the comms is lively and upbeat, leaving McCree feeling energetic and ready to sprint a mile, should the opportunity arise.

“Don’t know what this kid’s doin’ with the music, but it’s workin’,” he remarks to Hanzo.

“Indeed. He is very talented,” Hanzo remarks. He rolls his shoulders back, bow in hand, and tilts his head to crack his neck. McCree is briefly transfixed by the view of corded muscles flexing tight under Hanzo’s skin, and barely manages to drag his gaze away before he’s caught.

The omnium compound is silent but for the occasional groan of machinery in the far distance, and the tall steel buildings are cold and unwelcoming. The occasional bit of commentary from a team member comes across the comms, but other than that, there is nothing but their own footsteps and the faint sound of Lúcio’s music.  McCree walks with his hand half-curled around Peacekeeper, ready to draw, growing steadily more on-edge the longer the silence drags on. He is relieved to see that Hanzo is much the same, walking with his bow in hand and an arrow resting loosely against the string.  

“ _Spooky_ ,” Lena murmurs at one point. McCree silently agrees.

Despite his reservations, the march is unremarkable, and it isn’t long before they approach the flat, slightly rusted buildings Zarya indicated. The windows are dark and the doors shut tight, giving no indication that anyone has been through in years.

“Alright,” says Zarya, leaning her oversized gun on the ground as she glances about. “Reinhardt and I can stand watch. The rest of you, go look.”

“I will stay as surveillance as well,” Hanzo offers, hooking his bow over his shoulder. He does not wait for an answer before turning toward the nearest building. With effortless grace, he leaps up the side of the building, disappearing briefly over the edge before stepping back into view.

Lena giggles, and McCree realizes he’s staring yet again.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” he mutters, giving her a little shove on the shoulder. “Now you gotta come search with me instead of with the others. C’mon.” Lena laughs and follows dutifully after, letting Mei and Lúcio split off for the other lab.

The inside of the lab is dusty and damp, somehow colder than the outdoors had been. Patches of glittering frost dot the walls and line the edges of computer screens. McCree’s breath comes in puffs of white even inside, and he pulls the folds of his _serape_ closer around his neck and chin.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in awhile,” says Lena, picking her way carefully across dark, slick tile. Everything is clean, too much so--no personal effects sit on the desks or shelves, and no trash or general clutter lingers on tables or in corners.

“Maybe,” McCree agrees, “but that don’t mean someone hasn’t been.” He crosses the room and taps at a screen, which flares to life with an electric blue glow. Predictably, any records are behind security, and he frowns at the password prompts.

“Yeah.” Lena moves to a cabinet in the corner and begins rifling through old, slightly wet files. “Wow, can’t believe they kept anything on _paper_ still . . .”

McCree reaches into his pocket for a tiny thumb drive, marked in blue with the stylized A of Athena’s logo. “Paper can’t be hacked,” he says mildly. “Well. Not this way, anyway.” He plugs the drive into the side of the screen and lets the automatic programming take over, watching the scrolling text and flickering windows on-screen as the hacking program runs. After a couple of minutes, the computer gives a little ping and a secure log-on confirmation, leaving McCree free to browse through the files at leisure.

After ten minutes, though, it’s beginning to look like a lost cause.

“Anythin’ yet?” he asks, sighing as another folder turns out to hold nothing but dull schematics for pistons. Maybe Winston will have better luck when this info gets back to him.

“Not yet,” Lena says beside him. “It kinda looks like some of this stuff was gone through recently, but nothing really useful yet.”

“ _Think we got somethin’ over here_ ,” Lúcio replies over the comm. “ _Not sure yet, but we found a bunch of files about, like, using omnium schematics with people? Like maybe prosthetics or--_ ”

“Or someone like Genji,” McCree interrupts grimly. “That ain’t somethin’ that just sits around in a regular omnium. Grab all of it and we’ll--”

Hanzo’s voice cuts him off sharply. “ _There are omnics approaching our position,” he says. “We need to leave.”_

Zarya’s laughter is enthusiastic following the announcement. “ _Or we take them out! How many are there?_ ”

“ _A dozen, perhaps a few more. They are approaching quickly._ ”

“Aw, hell,” McCree mutters, already drawing Peacekeeper from its holster. Lena’s pistols are in her hands immediately, and she disappears out the door with a flicker of blue. McCree follows, barely remembering in time to yank Athena’s drive out of the computer and shove it in his pocket as he goes.

When he gets outside, Lena is already gone, and Mei and Lúcio are sprinting in the direction of the oncoming omnics. Zarya is a few steps behind, hauling her enormous cannon up out of the snow. Reinhardt lingers, but is obviously spoiling for a fight, hammer in one hand and hard-light shield raised.

“ _They are fanning out around the structure in front of us,_ ” Hanzo warns. McCree glances up in time to see the streak of an arrow fly overhead. He turns back to see Hanzo perched on the edge of his rooftop, another arrow already drawn and ready, ends of his scarf dancing gently on a freezing breeze.

“ _Ice wall, coming up!_ ” announces Mei, effectively drawing McCree back. A 10-foot wall of thick, gleaming ice shoots up from the ground twenty feet away, blocking off the pathway on the right side. This is followed by another arrow streaking past, and McCree can just barely see the ricochet of a scatter arrow around the edge of the wall, liking striking down several omnics.

“ _Damn, good shot! That got two of them!_ ” says Lúcio, which confirms McCree’s suspicion as he loops around to the left-hand path. He sees Zarya charge ahead, a hexagon-patterned shield shimmering around her person reflecting several incoming bullets. She grins as she fires a shot from her cannon, which explodes in front of half a dozen oncoming omnics and scatters them apart. McCree takes the opportunity to shoot down two of the disoriented bots, firing a bullet into each one’s chest and head and smirking when they drop.

Behind him, Reinhardt gives a shout, and then the massive man charges past, propelled by rocket engines. One of the larger omnics beeps wildly before it’s caught up on Reinhardt’s speeding bulk, and the unfortunate bot is crushed against a far wall. Reinhardt’s laughter echoes through the square. McCree just shakes his head, all too familiar with Reinhardt’s enthusiasm.

The majority of the omnics are taken down quickly between the team, but McCree can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. He fans the hammer into two more omnics and pauses. The air goes still, echoes of gunfire fading into nothingness.

Reinhardt and Zarya together round a corner around the central structure, weapons in hand. “That was the last of the omnics!” Zarya announces. “But more will come. We need to move out.”

“Wait, where’s Hanzo?” McCree asks, whipping around to find the archer. He sees movement in his peripheral vision and looks up to find Hanzo still on the roof--grappling with an overlooked omnic nearly twice his size. “Oh, shit--Hanzo!”

On the roof, Hanzo ducks under the omnic as it lunges for him and strikes out with his bow. He manages to catch the omnic on the hook of his bow, but even as he yanks the omnic down, he is too late to dodge the heavy metal arm swinging at his head. The omnic strikes him sharply on the temple, and he crumples, unconscious, and falls over the edge of the building toward the cold ground below.

“Hanzo!” McCree has his gun up and aimed before he even realizes, emptying his last two bullets into the omnic’s chassis. The omnic falls, but McCree doesn’t wait to see if it stays that way before holstering Peacekeeper and sprinting for the alley where he saw Hanzo fall. The buildings aren’t high, but they’re high enough, and he’s terrified of what he’ll find.

Hanzo lay in a heap on the snowy ground, unmoving, his bow beside him and arrows scattered. McCree rushes to kneel over him, turning him onto his back. A gash on Hanzo’s right temple bleeds openly, evidence of where he was struck. He is breathing, although shallowly, and unresponsive.

“Hanzo, c’mon, stay with me,” McCree hisses, shaking him by the shoulder. “Lúcio, we need a medic, Hanzo’s--”

The buildings on either side of him explode.

 

\--

 

After a long moment, the grinding of shifting brick and steel stops. A small chunk of stone dislodges itself and hits the ground by McCree’s shoulder with a thud, raining dust down upon them both. McCree is left with nothing but the sounds of his own breathing and his heart pounding in his ears.

He waits a minute before he dares to move, carefully pushing himself up onto his elbows. He had thrown himself over Hanzo in the split seconds he had before the walls had caved in around them both. Below him, Hanzo is still unresponsive; the rise of his chest pressing against McCree’s is the only sign that he’s still alive. McCree slowly raises himself further, and manages to get into a hunched kneeling position before he feels the back of his head brush stone.

“Jesus,” he breathes, wiggling around until he can get his legs underneath him. It puts him in the odd position of straddling Hanzo’s lap, but leaves his arms free. He taps at his earpiece, praying that it still works.

“Y’all still with me?” he calls, coughing on a throat full of dirt.

Static crackles across the line. “ _Jesse?_ ” says Lena’s voice, tentative but hopeful. “ _Jesse, are you okay? What happened? We saw the explosion and--_ ”

“I’m fine,” McCree replies. He peers around the dark, cramped space. Not a trickle of sunlight can reach them under the rubble, and no amount of letting his eyes adjust will reveal anything. “Hanzo and I got stuck under the collapse. Bit tight here, but not dead yet.”

“ _Oh, thank God_ ,” Lena sighs. _“We thought you got crushed_.” A moment of silence follows, then she continues, “ _Looks like whoever was here before us rigged the labs to blow. You’re super lucky you didn’t get caught in the blast._ ”

“ _Don’t worry man, we’ll get you out,”_ comes Lúcio. _“Zarya’s already radioed a team, but it might take an hour or so. Anyone hurt?_ ”

“Hanzo took a pretty hard knock,” McCree answers. He digs around in his gear until he comes up with an emergency light, which he flicks on and sets on the ground beside Hanzo’s head. The light flickers to life, bathing them in eerie red light. With his newfound vision, McCree leans down to inspect the bloody gash on Hanzo’s temple. Blood is already drying and cracking in his hair and skin, but continues to trickle from the wound. “He’s out cold but I think he’ll make it.”

“ _Damn. Music won’t help much if he’s not awake. Just sit tight, alright? We’ll have you guys outta there in no time. And keep warm. I don’t like the sound of a head wound in this weather.”_

“Yeah, sure thing.” Jesse flicks off the outgoing channel on his comm and sits back as far as the space will allow. Carefully, he unwraps his _serape_ from his shoulder and uses the corner to dab at Hanzo’s wound. A small amount of blood comes away with his attempts, but most of it sticks stubbornly, matting Hanzo’s hair and turning it darker and shiny. He gently brushes his fingertips through Hanzo’s hair, parting it for a better view of the gash and resolutely not enjoying the feel of silky, if damp, strands under his hand. The wound is bloody, but shallow, not life-threatening unless there’s deeper damage that McCree can’t see. Still, Lúcio’s warning about the cold lingers at the forefront of his mind, and he can see that Hanzo is already beginning to shiver.

“Dumbass should’ve dressed for the weather,” he sighs. He drapes his _serape_ over Hanzo’s chest and tucks it around his shoulders, hoping that it will be enough. Then he scoots to the side, leans awkwardly against a slanted piece of rubble, and settles in for a long wait.

He doesn’t end up waiting long. Five minutes later, Hanzo shifts with a little grunt of pain, turning his head away from the emergency light. McCree is up again immediately, a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder to keep him down.

“Easy there, partner,” he murmurs. “Ain’t no rush.”

Hanzo lifts his hand to his head, which McCree imagines must be throbbing. When his fingers come back tacky with blood, McCree says, “Yeah, you got hit pretty hard there. Ain’t too bad, but now that you’re awake, you might wanna stay that way.”

“What happened?” Hanzo rasps. “Where are we?”

“Caved-in,” McCree replies. “You’ve been out for a few minutes. How’re you feeling?”

“I have been better.” Hanzo tries again to sit up, easing himself upright and dropping the _serape_ into his lap. He squints in the dim light, eventually finding and focusing on McCree’s face. “How did we both end up here? I was alone when I was hit.”

McCree smiles, a bit sheepish. “I came after you, o’ course,” he replies. “Saw you go down and I was just gonna get you outta there, but then the buildings collapsed on us. Team’s on their way to dig us out, but it’s gonna be a few.”

Hanzo groans again and sways, his hand flying back to the wound on his head and gripping in pain. McCree gets a hand on Hanzo’s back, holding him upright. “Easy, easy,” he murmurs. “C’mere, sit up against this. Can’t have you fallin’ back asleep. And keep that on,” he adds when Hanzo tries to push the _serape_ off his lap. “Ain’t gonna let you die of hypothermia after goin’ through all this trouble.”

“Aren’t you cold as well? I cannot take--”

“Damn it, Hanzo, just quit arguin’ and take the fucking _serape_.”

To his surprise, Hanzo shuts his mouth with a click and gathers up the _serape_. He scoots over next to McCree and leans up beside him, but rather than wrapping the _serape_ around his shoulders, he shakes it out and throws half over McCree.

“There,” he says with an air of satisfaction. “We will both be warm, then.” He draws up his knees to his chest and drapes his half of the garment over himself, pulling a handful of the cloth up over his chin. He looks like he’s bundled up to watch a movie on the couch rather than trying to fight off Siberian temperatures, and it’s cute enough that McCree almost forgets to wrap up, too.

The _serape_ provides a valid excuse to press himself against Hanzo’s side, which is also nice. It almost feels like cuddling instead of necessity.

“Well. Knew that mission was goin’ too well,” McCree remarks. “It just ain’t a good mission unless someone nearly kicks it.”

“It did seem a bit too simple at the beginning,” Hanzo agrees. He groans again, his eyes fluttering shut. “My head hurts.”

“You did get hit pretty hard,” McCree murmurs sympathetically. “We’ll be outta here soon and Lúcio can take care of--”

He cuts off as Hanzo slides sideways, his head coming to a rest on McCree’s shoulder. He stares down at the top of Hanzo’s head for a moment, trying to process the action, before Hanzo starts to move.

“Apologies. I didn’t mean--”

“Nah, darlin’, it’s fine,” McCree says, probably too quickly. “Go ahead and rest, as long as you stay awake.”

Slowly, Hanzo resettles, his head pillowed on McCree’s shoulder. McCree manfully resists the urge to rest his head on Hanzo’s, but only just. This close, he can just barely catch the scent of Hanzo’s hair--that of crisp green apples, faded over the course of the day but nonetheless present. He has to turn his head away when he realizes just how lovely it is.

McCree is feeling a bit guilty for enjoying it as much as he is when Hanzo says, “Why do you call me that?”

“What?”

“‘Darling.’ The last time I checked, I was nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, uh.” McCree chuckles nervously. “I don’t really notice when I do it. Just kinda happens with people I like.”

“But not everyone. You do not call most of the team by this.”

“I’ve done it to one or two. Pretty sure I do it to Mei and Lena. I think I did it to Genji for awhile there.”

“It is because I am your soulmate.” This time, it isn’t a question. Hanzo keeps his eyes closed, his face downturned, but sounds certain nonetheless.

“That ain’t--”

“McCree, please. I am injured, not an idiot.” He says it without malice, almost with fondness. McCree finds he doesn’t have an argument for that, because, well, Hanzo is correct. _Darling_ is a pet name that either stems from flirting or affection--and in this case, it’s both.

The silence stretches between them. McCree listens for any signs that the excavation team has arrived, but not a sound comes from outside. His back is starting to hurt from the concrete and the hunched position, but nothing else will be more comfortable. A low level of anxiety still thrums under his skin, although now it is no longer caused by the adrenaline of battle.

He knows that he’s falling far too fast. Well, perhaps in another soulmate relationship, he’d be falling at just the right pace, but here? With a man who seems to loathe the idea that he is bound to another human being this way? McCree shouldn’t be falling at all. Yet here he is, trapped under tons of rubble in the freezing cold, still very much at the risk of dying, and all he can think of is how much he’d like to turn and gather Hanzo up in his arms.

He thought he had his pining under control. He’s developed feelings for people he couldn’t have before, much like any other adult, and he knows when to keep that to himself. But this is different. This is something they’re supposed to have, and yet it’s dangled just out of his reach. It’s something that anyone else would undergo together, but as much as Hanzo has warmed up to him in the last weeks, he still acts as though the string is a burden--when he acknowledges it at all.

The words leave McCree’s mouth before he even becomes conscious of thinking them: “Why don’t you want this?”

He can feel Hanzo stiffen beside him. “What?”

“I just--I don’t _get_ it. I’m tryin’ to be patient, I’m tryin’ to let you figure things out, but it’s like you just don’t want a damn thing to do with this--thing.” He gestures between them with his left hand, drawing attention to their shared thread.

Hanzo doesn’t answer for a long moment. He sits up, taking his warmth with him, and stares across the tiny space. The crimson emergency light highlights the sharp lines of his features, simultaneously eerie but flattering.

“It is not about wanting,” he eventually says.  

The answer is just vague enough to draw McCree’s frustration to the surface. “Then what is it?” he demands. When he realizes the tone he’s taken, he clears his throat and tries again. “What is it then, Hanzo? Because I’m just in the dark here. I can’t make you do anythin’ you don’t want, but I deserve an answer, at least. No matter how much you want it to be, it ain’t just about you.”

Hanzo grimaces. He pulls the serape over his shoulders and crosses his arms over his knees underneath. He is quiet for so long that McCree thinks he’s being ignored, until Hanzo says, so lowly that McCree has to strain to hear, “I decided a long time ago that when and if I met my soulmate, I would not allow anything to come of it. I believed it would be for the best.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that,” McCree sighs, “but I don’t get _why_. You didn’t really think you’d never meet me, did you?”

“I imagined that I would, eventually, but I gave it very little thought.” Hanzo runs a hand through his bangs, stopping up short when his palm smudges against his injury. “Growing up, Genji and I were encouraged to ignore such fancies. We were scolded for discussing our soulmates, told that the things we wanted were fairy tales. Many of our family members presented their mates as business connections, not partners. As we grew older, we were prepared by our elders to take over the clan, and when our father died, I stopped thinking of my soulmate entirely. There was too much else for me to do, and it seemed unimportant.”

Hanzo looks down, pain etched into his features. “And after what I did to Genji, I realized that there could not possibly be anyone who would want me as their soulmate.”

McCree is hit with a wave of compassion so sudden that it leaves him breathless. “Oh, Hanzo, that ain’t true at all,” he says softly.

Hanzo snorts as though amused, but his expression paints another story. “So you say.”

McCree starts to protest, then stops. Repeating himself won’t help; Hanzo is too deep in his self-loathing to possibly believe that he is wanted just by insisting it to be true. Instead, he says, “Y’know, I used to feel the same way.”

Hanzo refuses to look at him, so he keeps talking. “I was with the Deadlocks for two years, and by the time Reyes picked me up for Blackwatch, I hated myself. Wouldn’t admit it for shit, but I did. And I’d look at this thread here sometimes and just think that there couldn’t possibly be a single person in the world who’d want someone who did all the shit I did. Lotta the gang members would laugh about even havin’ strings in the first place. Couldn’t admit I wanted somethin’ to come of it, even when I thought nothin’ would.”

“But that changed,” Hanzo murmurs, addressing the rubble on the other side.

“Yeah, it did.” McCree gives Hanzo a slightly forced, but genuine, smile. “I didn’t like what we did in Blackwatch. That’s a whole ‘nother story. But in the end, I did some good, too. And I had friends there, and people who liked me, and people who were just tryin’ to turn themselves around like I was.”

He bumps his shoulder against Hanzo’s and stays there, sharing a spot of warmth between them. “But that all doesn’t answer the real question,” he says softly. “Do you _want_ any of this?”

Hanzo opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, lips pursed into a thin line. He hunches his shoulders as if to escape McCree’s gaze. “I do not know,” he admits. “I am not . . . _averse_ to the idea. And I do not dislike you.”

“But there’s a lot tied up in it,” McCree finishes. Hanzo hangs his head.

McCree takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He rests his head and stares up at the jagged angles of rubble that comprise the ceiling, picking his next words carefully.

“Okay, well, I gotta be honest, then,” he says. He scrubs a hand through his hair and down his neck. “You’re a good friend. But I’ve known for a good long time that whenever this came about, it was gonna be, y’know, romantic. At least on my end.” Hanzo head snaps up, his eyes wide in the dim light. McCree barrels on before he can lose my nerve. “And I gotta admit, I like you, alright? And that’s not--I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty, or to make you think you gotta do somethin’ you ain’t ready for. I’m just tired of us not bein’ on the same page.”

He rubs his hand down his face. He can feel himself flushing, and is grateful for the darkness to hide the color in his cheeks. He feels a bit stupid, getting embarrassed and fearful by being honest, but he’s had enough of wondering. “I just--I think this could go somewhere. Me and you. If you wanted that. And I think I’d think that even if we weren’t supposed to be soulmates.”

Overhead, the sound of scraping concrete and rumbling machinery cuts them off. The comm crackles to life in McCree’s ear. “Jesse?” calls Mei’s voice, sweet and worried. “ _Are you guys okay? The team’s here. We’re ready to get you out._ ”

Hanzo frowns as McCree sits back--when had he leaned so close to Hanzo?--and taps at his comm. “Yeah, we’re still good,” he replies, as the scraping continues around them. A crack appears in the ceiling, and pale sunlight streams through. “Cold an’ tired and ready to get outta here, though.”

“ _Is Hanzo okay? Lúcio said he had a head injury._ ”

“Yeah, he woke up. Needs lookin’ at but he’ll live.”

“ _Okay. Just hang on a little longer._ ”

McCree thumbs the comm off again and turns to Hanzo. “That’s the team, as you probably gathered,” he says. “We’re on our way outta here.”

“Good.” Hanzo looks up to watch the progress, and probably to avoid looking at McCree.

McCree hesitates. Another piece of rubble creaks upward, spilling more light into the space. “Listen,” he says, “you don’t gotta answer me right now. But I’m tellin’ you, I like you, and I don’t care about what you’ve done because I like the guy sittin’ in front of me, who’s so guilty he’s been working his ass off to do better with himself.”

The hole in the ceiling widens, and several concerned team members peek their faces over the edge. He can hear the soothing beat of Lúcio’s music float down into the space, prickling his skin with warmth. “Just think about it, alright?” he says, brushing his hand against Hanzo’s before carefully getting to his feet. Above, Reinhardt leans over a pile of rubble, his hand extended to haul them out.

As McCree reaches up and braces himself with one foot against a chunk of fallen concrete, he’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He looks back at Hanzo, whose expression is one of sudden determination--and also of someone trying not to vomit.

“I have always known as well,” he begins, through gritted teeth, “that if I were ever to meet my soulmate, it would be . . . _romantic_. I do not know that this will occur, but in the interest of being, as you said, on the same page . . .” He closes his mouth abruptly, and McCree almost expects him to actually be sick.

Still, it’s something. McCree reaches up to tip his hat before realizing he hasn’t had it since the collapse, then lets Reinhardt drag him out of the rubble.

 

\--

 

The next morning sees them loading onto the shuttle to fly home, armed with files and flash drives loaded with information to parse. McCree is the first one onto the shuttle, claiming an entire couch on which he might stretch his aching back. The others are slower to follow. Outside, Mei and Zarya are saying their goodbyes with Lena and Lúcio, and Reinhardt is helping load up random bits of gear.

Hanzo, however, stands off to the side, back on his comm and speaking rapid Japanese. His hair is combed back to make room for a transparent plastic strip covering the gash on his temple, but otherwise, he looks as presentable as ever--and still cold. McCree can catch Genji’s name here and there, but otherwise has no idea what is happening. This time, at least, Hanzo appears to be neutral about the conversation, rather than angry. When he finally taps off his comm, he almost looks like he’s smiling.

“Genji gettin’ into trouble again?” McCree prompts as he moves to stand beside Hanzo.

“No. Well, perhaps, but he did not mention it.” Hanzo chuckles softly. “No, he merely wanted to know if I was well. Apparently last night’s debriefing reached him and he was worried.”

“That’s what family does.” McCree eyes the tape on the side of Hanzo’s head. “How are you feelin’, though? Looks like Lúcio patched you up alright.”

Hanzo grimaces slightly. “I am still a bit nauseated,” he admits, “and it still hurts, but I am fine. Nothing that will not be fixed with rest.”

“Good, good.”

They lapse into easy silence, watching the rest of the team and waiting for their departure. A few feet away, Mei squeals as Zarya grabs her in a bear hug and kisses her soundly on the cheek. Zarya has promised that she will consider joining Overwatch, once she is certain things here are under control without her, but it still means an unknown amount of time before she and Mei meet again. McCree’s heart gives a little twist of sympathy. When he glances over, he sees Hanzo watching the display, too, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

“They look good together,” McCree remarks.

“They do. They look . . . happy.” Hanzo’s gaze takes on a distant look, and he is quiet for a moment before he says, “I agreed to meditate with Genji and his mentor when we return to Gibraltar.”

“Didja?”

“Yes.”

“Well good. Glad to hear it. Can’t say meditatin’ ever did much for me, but maybe you’ll get somethin’ out of it.”

“Perhaps.” The little smile returns to his face. McCree has a sudden urge to kiss it and barely refrains. “You were correct. Being stubborn for the sake of it will not help my relationship with Genji. Besides, given how he has changed Genji for the better . . .”

He trails off, suddenly looking like he has said too much. McCree’s heart swells with pride.

“You know what,” he says, gently bumping his shoulder against Hanzo’s, “that’s pretty damn good o’ you.”

The sincere, pleased smile he gets in return carries him through the flight home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly 9000 words. Hoo boy. 
> 
> Kinda burned my way through this chapter, so excuse any egregious errors. They will be fixed when I am not half-dead.

The motions of folding a crane are so familiar that Hanzo can lose himself in thought as his hands go to work. Fold over, crease with his thumbnail, reverse-fold, crease again. A miniature crane rises from the table under his hands, long-winged, head tilted proudly up. When he finishes, he puts it beside the small menagerie of other origami creations next to his elbow, including a rabbit, a dragon, and two paper shuriken.

His head throbs gently, his persistent headache making itself known as soon as he is no longer distracted. He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, stifling a soft groan. It has been a week since the mission in Siberia and yet the pain from his injury still persists. Angela had warned him that the post-concussive syndrome might last for days, despite her healing, but even knowing this Hanzo is still exhausted by the constant, dull ache.

It doesn’t help that McCree left him with so much to think about after that mission.

McCree hadn’t intended that conversation as an ultimatum and had stated as much, yet that was how it felt. Hanzo has spent that last week turning every word over in his mind from those confessions, shared in the frigid dark of the cave-in. McCree, ever-patient but persistent, hopeful and disappointed all at once in Hanzo’s utter inability to even consider what could unfold between them.

Well, perhaps it was inaccurate to say he never considered it. He had considered it extensively, particularly in the last week. He was not, as he had stupidly said to McCree, _averse_ to anything that their soulmate relationship offered. But as to whether he wanted it--he genuinely could not say. He enjoys the easy friendship they have now, but that is something he could have with anyone. A soulmate relationship is supposed to be so much more, and that both intrigues and terrifies him in equal measure. He does not know which emotion will win out.

Hanzo reaches for another piece of delicate origami paper and begins folding again, letting the familiar motions distract him from his discomfort--both physical and mental.

A cup of tea settles with a gentle clunk on the table beside his hands. Hanzo looks up into Mei’s sweetly smiling face. “Here you go,” says Mei cheerfully, settling on the other side with her own mug clasped between her hands. “It’s a new loose tea. I thought we could try it together.”

Hanzo gives a weak smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Mei hums sympathetically. “Still not feeling well?”

“I have been better,” Hanzo admits. He draws the cup close, breathing in the complex scents of ginger and green tea that rise on the steam to chase away his lingering nausea. “But this helps.”

Mei giggles and reaches for a piece of origami paper, but pauses when she sees the pieces Hanzo has already completed. “You got started without me!” she laments.

Hanzo laughs softly. “I did. I became distracted. But there is still plenty of paper to learn with.”

“True, but still.” Mei affects her best pout, which draws a chuckle from Hanzo. He does like Mei, he will admit that freely. He does not dislike anyone on the team, but Mei makes for bubbly, intelligent company, with no strings--literal or otherwise--attached. He’s grown to enjoy spending time with her outside of missions or training, discussing their various interests or simply bonding over the many idiosyncrasies of Western culture compared to their own east-Asian upbringings.

“My apologies,” he says. “I will endeavor to be more patient in the future. Shall we begin?”

She nods happily. “What will we start with?” Her gaze slides over to the completed pieces, and her eyes light up. “Can we do the rabbit? It’s so cute!”

Hanzo smiles at her enthusiasm and obliges, beginning the process of folding a rabbit anew with the blue and silver paper. He works slowly and explains the steps as he goes, watching Mei build up a simple origami bunny. They are nearly done when an electronic jingle rings, muffled, from the pocket of Mei’s jeans.

“Oops,” she says. “Sorry. Will it be rude if I--”

“Not at all,” Hanzo assures. Mei digs out her phone, and as soon as she sees the name on the screen, her face lights up with joy.

“Sorry, it’ll just be a minute,” Mei says, already typing away. She shoots Hanzo an apologetic glance. “It’s just--it’s Zarya, so I don’t--”

“It is okay,” Hanzo insists. “We are not in a rush.”

He sips at his tea while Mei sends several texts and, unabashedly, takes two photos of herself and one of the table with the origami. It gives him a moment just to savor the hot drink, letting it soothe his stomach and head while he watches Mei gush over her phone.

“She sent me a picture, too, look!” she exclaims when Hanzo has half-finished his tea. She turns the phone to him to let him see the portrait Zarya sent, a dashing photo of her grinning at the camera angled above her head.

“She’s a lovely woman,” Hanzo agrees, privately amused by Mei's enthusiasm.

Mei giggles and finally tucks away her phone. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s get back to it.”

Despite her declaration, they only manage to finish one rabbit each before her phone pings again. She flushes but doesn’t hesitate to answer the text while Hanzo sets up his completed origami rabbit next to hers. His is a bit neater and stands taller on its own, but Mei’s is not a bad effort. Together they look like blue paper siblings: not twins, but brothers nonetheless.

“You seem very happy with Zarya,” he notes, drawing a fresh piece of paper toward himself.

Mei bites her lip shyly, her gaze down at her hands. “Yeah,” she says. “She’s really great. She’s so strong! And she’s so brave, dropping everything to go home and fight for her family . . .” She takes another piece of paper, fidgeting with the edges. “I’m really glad we got to meet. I know we haven’t known each other that long, but . . .”

“Such is the nature of soulmate relationships,” Hanzo says, beginning the process of folding a new piece of origami as he speaks. “Or so I’m led to believe. It is good that you are getting along so well. Not everyone is so lucky.”

Mei lapses into silence, and Hanzo keeps himself occupied with folding. He is most of the way through a four-petaled lily when Mei says, “So, if you don't mind me asking, how _are_ things with you and Jesse?”

Hanzo pauses mid-fold.

“You don’t have to tell me! It’s just, he’s talked a little bit about it, and everyone in Overwatch is usually kind of open about that, and--”

Hanzo stops her long apology with a raised hand. “It is fine,” he says. “I do not mind you asking.” He returns his attention to his paper flower, gently scraping a thumbnail down one half-formed petal as he chooses his words. Mei starts folding again, making another rabbit.

“It is not going well,” he eventually says.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Hanzo shakes his head. “It is not your fault. It has just been . . . difficult.”

“You guys seem like you get along so well, though.”

“He is a fine friend. It is just . . . other things.”

Hanzo makes a few more folds in the flower, but his mind is elsewhere now. After a few long moments, he asks, “How are you so certain?”

“About what?” Mei looks up from her second rabbit--much neater than the first--to regard him curiously.

“About your relationship with Zarya. Neither of you showed any hesitation, any uncertainty regarding what you will be. You have known each other for little more than a week and yet seem completely certain of your relationship.”

“Oh, well. I don’t really know.” Mei adds her bunny to the previous two, a younger sibling to the first generation of paper rabbits. “It just felt right, you know? I mean, if she weren’t my soulmate, maybe it wouldn’t be so easy. But I like her a lot, and I guess just knowing that we were supposed to meet makes it easier.”

Hanzo finishes the flower in his hands quickly and deposits it among the rabbits. The table is beginning to become cluttered with origami creations. “And you do not doubt it?” he presses. “Yourself, or the relationship, or what it is to be?”

Mei tilts her head at him, folding her hands around her tea mug. She searches his face for a few seconds, though Hanzo doesn’t know what she hopes to find.

“It isn’t that I do not doubt sometimes,” she says. “It is a little scary. Sometimes I think about how she’s so strong, and what’s she’s done and how she gave up so much, and I feel like there’s no way she could like some little scientist as much as I like her.”

“But you do not let it cloud your judgement.”

“I try not to. I mean, it’s silly, when I step back and think about it. And I really like her and she makes me feel good, and I know she likes me, so why let it ruin the chance for something that could be amazing?” She takes a sip of her tea and smiles over her cup. “And I know Jesse likes you a lot, Hanzo. And if you like him, maybe you should just see what happens instead of worrying so much.”

Hanzo stares down at his thread, the thin, bright loops around his smallest finger and the length that disappears somewhere in the base. Given the direction, he guesses McCree to be in the shooting ranges. Strange to be so certain of his soulmate’s every movement, yet nothing of himself.

Mei reaches over and pats him gently on the hand. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. “In the meantime, you still owe me some more lessons. Can you do a snowflake?”

Hanzo can, and he makes four snowflakes to Mei’s lopsided one and lets her keep them all.

 

\--

 

That night sees Hanzo waking with a gasp at two in the morning.

He lays in bed for several minutes, staring at the ceiling as he waits for his heart to settle. He does not know why the nightmares have chosen to return after years of absence. If they were all the same, he might be able to go back to sleep, but now they’ve taken a decidedly different turn.

_The memories of Genji’s murder fused with his brother’s new appearance, making Hanzo feel like he’s killing him all over again. Overwatch looks on in horror and disgust as blood drips off of his hands and blade. McCree stares at him with cold, vicious fury in his eyes, his gun raised, finger pulling back on the trigger as he snarls, “I can’t believe I trusted you--”_

Hanzo throws back his blanket and plants his feet firmly on the cold floor, running trembling hands through his loose hair. Cold sweat beads his brow, sticking his hair uncomfortably to his face and neck. He breathes deeply and rubs his hand down the back of his neck, swallowing down the feelings of shame and frustration that inevitably come with succumbing, yet again, to fictional dreams.

There will be no sleeping for at least another hour. When he feels steady again, he stands, snags a rarely-worn hoodie from the matchbox of a closet, and pulls it on as he pads out of his room.

The Gibraltar base at night is often considered eerie to anyone who dislikes the dark or the quiet, but Hanzo finds it peaceful. The automatic lights flick on as he passes and click back off behind him as he makes his way to the kitchen, illuminating his path and then covering his tracks. He makes himself a cup of herbal tea, steals a chocolate bar from Hana’s not-so-secret stash in the back of the cupboard by the fridge, and makes his way toward the rec room to wait for exhaustion to win out over his jangling nerves.

To his surprise, even though it is so late, the rec room is not empty. The light are off but the TV is on, playing an old animated cartoon. McCree is sprawled in the corner of the long couch with his feet propped on the coffee table, a glass in hand. He looks up when Hanzo enters the room, eyebrows almost reaching his hairline in surprise.

Hanzo clears his throat. “May I join you?” he asks.

“‘Course.” He seems to come to himself all at once and gestures toward the free space on the couch. Hanzo sits, leaving a respectable amount of distance between them, although he feels the strange urge to scoot over until he can lean into McCree’s side. Such urges have become increasingly common since the cave-in, despite everything, and he finds himself having to tamp them down more and more.

He thinks back to what Mei said earlier that day and wonders if he truly does need to restrain himself.

“What are you watching?” he asks, settling deeper into the couch.

“Somethin’ Hana recommended to me. Called _Cowboy Bebop_. Y’ever heard of it?” Hanzo shakes his head. “Yeah, I guess it’s real old. Pretty good, though.”

“What is it about?”

McCree glances down. “Did you steal that chocolate from Hana?”  


“Perhaps.”

“I’ll tell you about it if you share.”

Hanzo laughs, unwraps the bar, and breaks it in half. Their fingers brush when McCree takes his portion.

“Right, so, they’re all bounty hunters, basically,” McCree says, pausing to break off a rectangle of chocolate with his teeth. He keeps talking around the bite. “They get government contracts to chase bounties and such. Call ‘em ‘cowboys.’ That guy there, that’s Spike, he used to be this hitman for a huge gang but now he does the vigilante justice bit instead.”

Hanzo smirks. “I imagine he’s your favorite,” he says. He nibbles a piece of chocolate and lets it melt on his tongue, savoring it as it dissolves. Though he is loathe to admit it, he has the sweet tooth to rival a child. Cheap chocolate doesn’t compare to the subtler sweets of his home, but it works well enough to soothe away the vestiges of his nightmares.

“Naturally,” McCree replies easily.

Hanzo settles in with his tea and pilfered candy as McCree continues to explain the plot and characters of the show, varying from a former officer to an amnesiac _femme fatale_ to a corgi of near-human intelligence. Eventually, he runs out of things to explain and just keeps up a running commentary of the action happening on-screen, gesturing with hand and glass both in a way that threatens to spill his drink in someone’s lap.

Hanzo feels he should be annoyed, but finds that he rather enjoys this: the soothing timber of McCree’s voice, the quiet intimacy of the dark and silent base, relaxing with a rare treat and a television show. He picks up on the show quickly enough and banters back and forth with McCree between tea and bits of chocolate. When he learns that McCree’s glass is filled with so-called sweet tea, he gives it a taste, then spends a solid two minutes arguing good-naturedly about what constitutes _tea_ versus _sugar-water flavored with cheap leaves_.

Before he realizes, they’ve finished two episodes of the show in the last 45 minutes and both his chocolate and tea are gone. The next episode starts up automatically, and Hanzo doesn’t even think to get up and go back to bed yet. He tucks one leg up on the couch, with the end result of his knee pressing into the side of McCree’s warm thigh. McCree doesn’t mention it, so he doesn’t move.

After a few minutes, he glances over and catches McCree staring, his chin propped in his hand. The copper-brown of his eyes is obscured by the darkness of the room, but the flickering TV lights still catch on the lines of his strong jaw and straight nose. Hanzo nearly forgets to ask, “What are you staring at?”

McCree blinks and gives a quick shake of his head, as though pulling himself out of a daydream. “Nothin’,” he answers. “Just--don’t ever think I’ve seen you dressed so casual, is all.”

“Did you think I slept in those clothes?”

“I dunno! You just always look so put-together, like you don’t want anyone knowin’ you own a t-shirt or you’re always ready to go kill someone. Can’t blame me.” McCree shrugs and turns his attention back to the TV. “Looks good on you, though.”

The casual compliment leaves Hanzo briefly stunned. He can’t quite find the words to respond properly, so he just gives a little nod of acknowledgement. He is taken more off-guard, however, by McCree’s follow-up question of, “That reminds me, though, what’s got you up so late? Usually just me.

Hanzo grimaces. He considers not answering, but eventually replies, “Unpleasant dreams. I could not sleep.”

“Oh, same,” McCree says mildly. He drains the rest of his sweet tea.

“You as well?”

“Yeah. The predictable stuff. Deadlocks, Blackwatch, et cetera.” McCree makes a face. Upon further inspection, Hanzo can see the fine lines of exhaustion and the faint, bruise-like coloring under his eyes that speak of a restless night’s sleep.

“Wasn’t Blackwatch a part of Overwatch?”

“Yeah, but . . .” His mouth twists unhappily. “We did a lotta the dirty stuff. And Reyes started to get a bit too into it. It wasn’t the parts of Overwatch anyone wanted to talk about.” He takes a deep breath and blows it out quickly. “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“Nightmares. I mean, I can guess at what they are, but you don’t seem like the kinda guy to have to deal with it, really.”

“Most would consider it rude to ask.”

“Oh, please, we’re both fucked-up. It don’t count.”

This draws a laugh out of Hanzo. He stares at the dregs of his tea. “The predictable,” he parrots. “Genji. The night it happened.” He wraps the string of the tea bag around his finger and bends the paper tag under his thumb. “I have not had such dreams for years. Tonight was the first in some time and it was . . . different.”

“How so?”

Hanzo thinks of the vicious hatred that burned in McCree’s eyes in his dream, the overly loud click of the hammer being drawn back.

“I would rather not discuss it,” he says.

“Fair ‘nough.” McCree leans forward to set his empty glass on the table beside his sock-clad feet. When he sits back, he fixes Hanzo with a half-smile and a surprisingly serious gaze. “You ever wanna talk about it, though, come find me. A man ain’t meant to go through all that alone.”

Hanzo returns the smile with a grateful nod. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Maybe I will.” He hesitates for a fraction of a second, wondering if he should continue with the sudden thought that pops into his head. He gives in, smirks, and adds, “Although too many late-night trysts might make people talk.”

He returns his attention to the TV, but can see McCree’s head whip toward him from the corner of his eye, staring as he debates whether Hanzo had actually meant the line as something flirtatious. “I can think of worse things,” McCree says.

Hanzo chuckles softly, a pleasant warmth burning low in his belly. “As can I.” The familiar fear makes itself known, a counterpoint of twisting cold under his sternum, but when he sees McCree trying to hide his grin behind his hand, it loosens just a bit.

Hanzo is willing to admit, he has always considered McCree to be attractive. He is handsome, in a rugged, untamed sort of way that the men Hanzo was surrounded by in Japan never were. The warmth in his gut is about more than just simple attraction, however--he is not so naive as to think otherwise. He knows that those feelings are developing whether he likes it or not, taking to seed like a determined sapling, roots cracking through the foundation of his self-hatred and determination to be alone. It is a difficult fight, but he suspects those romantic inclinations will take over soon. He likes McCree, and always has despite his best efforts. It is only recently that he has looked upon that affection with anything but frustration.

He thinks again about his talk with Mei, about the ease with which she accepted her soulmate and the simple advice to just let everything unfold as it will, and wonders if perhaps he is capable of it after all.

 

\--

 

As soon as they finish breakfast, Genji is on his feet. Eagerness is written in every line of his body. “Are you ready to go?” he asks, already picking up his visor from where it rests on the table.

Hanzo considers the last few grains of rice in his bowl. He could probably make a show of finishing the last half of a morsel remaining, but doing so would be childish. Besides, he has already put off the meditation for two weeks, despite the fact that excuse of post-concussive complications became a lie four days ago. With a bitten-back sigh, he nods and stands. He gathers his dishes, then snatches up Genji’s bowl and coffee cup as well and deposits the lot in the sink.

Genji smirks when he returns. “Still cleaning up after me?” he asks. “I would have thought those days were behind us.”

“Someone has to. If it is not your toys, it is your dishes, or your clothing, or your gear.”

“I’m not that messy!”

“You always have been. You just don’t realize because if I don’t clean, you certainly won’t.”

Genji bickers with him about his lack of cleanliness for part of their walk, out of the base proper and into the cliffs, but sobers as they near their destination. Once again, Hanzo is startled by the turn in Genji’s behavior. Genji had undergone most of the same training he did and is skilled in many of the same areas, but had never had the mindset for meditation or giving the kind of deep, unquestioned respect that he does his master. He should be used to it now, after nearly two months, but he still finds himself jarred by the differences.

They climb one of the winding paths leading up from the base to the surrounding cliffs, leaving behind the characteristic clatter and bustle of the base until no noise comes to them but the wash of the sea and the cries of the gulls overhead. The path becomes gradually steeper, littered precariously with loose rocks and dirt, a march that might be dangerous for anyone else. When they reach the top, stepping out onto a flat, empty bit of sparsely-grassed clifftop, Zenyatta is already perched by the edge, floating a few inches above the ground in a cross-legged position. He tilts his head to regard the newcomers, but otherwise does not move.

“Greetings, my students,” he says amiably. Hanzo resists the urge to retort that he is not a _student_ , merely a guest. “Please, have a seat. Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes, master,” Genji replies, sitting himself beside the omnic. Hanzo considers, then kneels at Genji’s other side with his hands in his lap.

“I am glad you have decided to join us, Hanzo,” Zenyatta says. “I hope that today will be of benefit to you.”

“We will see.” Hanzo catches Genji give him a mildly annoyed glance and feels a touch of shame. He turns to face the sea and closes his eyes, focusing on the dark behind his eyelids.

“Good,” says Zenyatta, either unaware of or ignoring Hanzo’s doubt. “I wish to try a guided meditation with you today. I suspect there is much on your mind, but we will not address all of it at once, merely attempt to overcome some of the anger and emotion that come along with these thoughts. Begin by clearing your mind. Focus on the sound of your own breath, the beat of your heart in your chest.”

This is familiar enough. Hanzo breathes deeply, noting the salty tang of the sea on the air.  He can hear the breath Genji takes beside him, and his mind briefly wanders with the thought of his cybernetic enhancements, whether they’ve affected his lungs. He catches himself getting distracted and quickly pulls his attention back, eventually managing to settle into the calm, meditative trance.

After a few long minutes, he hears Zenyatta speak, voice low and soothing as not to break them from their concentration. “Now I want you to consider a trouble you have had. Whatever has preoccupied your mind the most as of late. This is not to lose yourself to the problem, only to look upon it.”

The first thing to jump to Hanzo’s mind is McCree. His string. Their nebulous status as soulmates. It’s a multi-faceted problem, one that threatens to drag him down out of proper meditation and into an anxious spiral. He breathes deeply again, listening to the sound of air as it passes through his nose, and manages to mentally back away until he can look at the problem, as though observing it through a pane of glass: McCree and their string. His primary concern.

“May I ask you both what you are thinking of?”

Genji answers without hesitation. “My brother.”

Hanzo hesitates, but after a moment admits, “My soulmate.”

“Good. Look upon your worries from a distance. Imagine the encroaching waves of the sea as they wash upon the shore. Stand at the edge of the surf and allow the waves to wash over you as you stand. Envision your worries as the waves, and do not resist, simply allow them to come to you as they will. Allow your emotions to come to you and do not fight them.”

Hanzo breathes in the scent of the real sea surrounding them, grounding himself in the vision in his mind’s eye. He imagines the cold of the water at his feet, the ever-present fluctuations of the tide as the waves roll across the water and crash against the sand. Immediately, he feels the anxiety roll in like the waves--not a gentle wash, but a crash of emotion like an unexpected tsunami. The thoughts surround him as though he has been dragged under the surface, heavy and terrifying: what McCree must think of him, what is expected from him as a soulmate, how can he possibly deserve someone who cares for him in such a way, how can anyone even truly like him--

Somewhere above, Zenyatta’s voice floats back to him. “Do not try to take apart your emotions,” he says. “Do not fight. Let yourself feel them. Your fear, your sadness, your anger--they are a part of you. You must allow yourself to experience them in full before you can begin to heal.”

Hanzo takes in a shuddering breath. He hates how quickly he has been overcome.

“Do not fight it, Hanzo. You will come out on the other side unharmed. The waves will pass.”

Hanzo can feel himself gritting his teeth, every muscle up his neck and shoulders tense. He forces himself to relax them one by one, and slowly the anxiety begins to recede by a fraction.

“Good. Now we can begin to look at the true sources of these emotions. Think of just one facet of your worry, but do not attempt to analyze it. Let it come to you.”

The first thing that jumps to the forefront is biggest fear, the one that feels the most childish: _Nobody could possibly want me as their soulmate._ He has been told otherwise multiple times, but the fear remains. It is distrust and self-hatred tangled together, too difficult a knot to be picked apart by a few kind words.

“Tell me what you are thinking of.”

Hanzo’s jaw is clenched again. “He cannot want me,” he says roughly. He does not hear what Genji says over the dull roar in his ears.

“And why is that?”

“I am not worthy of his attentions.”

“He is your soulmate, is he not? Does it truly matter?” Hanzo does not answer, not trusting himself to speak. The waves of the sea in his mind are turbulent, a churning force of emotion. “I suspect you have been told otherwise. He seems to enjoy your company. Why do you feel as though you are not worthy?”

“Because of what I have done.” The images shift sharply, now. Hanzo is thrown back to memories of ten years ago: the blood hot and tacky on his hands, Genji’s wet and ragged breathing as he collapses to the dojo floor, the clatter of the blade as it slips from his fingers--

“Hanzo,” comes Zenyatta’s voice, pulling him gently back. “Do not lose yourself to those memories. You are focused on the past, unable to visualize the future, or even begin to shape the present. I want you to think only of the present. Do not think of what you have done years ago. Think of what you have done since you arrived. Think of the time you have spent building new friendships, fighting side-by-side with your team. Think of the things you have been told, not what you think you should be told.”

At this, more recent memories bloom to life. Long conversations with Mei about science and hobbies. Being dragged into last week’s gaming marathon with Hana and Lúcio. Quiet evenings spent with McCree, drinking and talking, sometimes sharing deep secrets, other times chatting about nothing important at all. McCree’s elation when they first met, the flirty timber of his voice as he flattered Hanzo despite already knowing what he had done. The cold hour they spent trapped under the rubble in Siberia, where McCree confessed the nature of his feelings and said, clearly and honestly, that he did not care about Hanzo’s past, only who he is now.

“Now, consider what your future might hold if you were to let go of these emotions. Cast aside your doubts and your fears. Consider only what you know, and allow yourself to imagine what your future might hold.”

It’s surprisingly easy, almost shamefully so, repressed desires finally given permission to come to light. He thinks of a future with Overwatch, years spent amongst a team that accepts him, fighting for a greater good and giving back to a world that he previously only ever took from--and McCree at his side throughout it all. He thinks of strong hands on his hips, whispered endearments in his ear, callused fingertips trailing along his skin and soft kisses pressed to his lips--

“This is a future you can have,” says Zenyatta. “You do not have to ask for permission from anyone but yourself. These emotions you feel, these doubts you allow to hold you back from happiness, are of your own making. They are part of you, yes, but you must not cling to them. It is time to allow them to pass. Embrace the tranquility that will come.”

Hanzo feels as though he’s being yanked by a chain, pulled in one direction and then another. The tentative happiness and relief offered by his hypothetical future crash into the sense memories of the fight with Genji, tumbling with more recent memories of everything else. He tries to force himself to step back from the mess, return to the passive observation of the beginning, but finds that it is impossible.

“Hanzo.”

Hanzo snaps his eyes open to bright Gibraltar sunshine. He becomes aware of his own breathing first, shallow and ragged. Slowly, the rest of the world creeps back into focus: the gentle wash of the sea below, the sharp scent of saltwater, the cool breeze catching his scarf and prickling his skin.

“You have done well today, Hanzo,” Zenyatta says. Hanzo looks over at him. Genji is nowhere to be found. “How are you feeling?”

“I . . .” Hanzo flexes his hands where they rest on his knees. He touches his fingertips to the corner of his eye and is surprised when they come back wet with unshed tears. “Confused. Uncertain.” He does not ask where Genji has gone. It is easy enough to guess that his absence was planned.

“I imagine you have a lot to consider,” Zenyatta agrees with a nod. The content expression on his face is unchanged, but Hanzo can imagine the omnic giving a supportive smile nonetheless. “You have made progress today, even if you do not feel you have.”

Hanzo slowly gets to his feet, feeling unsteady as he does. “I think I have,” he agrees tentatively. “Of a sort. I have much to think about.”

“Of course. Take some time to yourself to think of what we discussed today.”

Hanzo looks at his left hand. As he eyes his string, he feels nothing at all. It is his thread, it ties him to a man who is somewhere on this base, and it is simply a part of his existence.

He has not felt so simply about the string since he was a boy.

“Thank you,” he says, surprising himself as the words come forth. “I will do just that.”

 

\--

 

That afternoon sees the entire Overwatch team gathered in the large training gym for group exercises. Hanzo spends the remainder of his morning in his quarters alone, thinking over the morning’s meditation. It was only one session, but he finds that he feels lighter than he had that morning, more capable of functioning without the constant, looming threat of emotional collapse.

When it comes time to get ready, he initially reaches for a plain black _gi_ , the favored of his training clothes. His fingers brush against one of his few t-shirts, and he remembers the night of a week before, and McCree’s apparent interest in Hanzo’s casual clothing. The hoodie and sleep pants had not been the most flattering of options, but they had piqued McCree’s interest nonetheless. Hanzo wonders what would happen if he wore something more fitting.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters to himself. Is he really considering changing his wardrobe just to appeal to McCree?

Nonetheless, he picks out a dark red t-shirt and pulls it on before he can change his mind. The cotton hugs tight to his chest and shoulders, which he supposes is flattering enough. After a moment’s deliberation, he changes out his hair tie for one in a similar shade of red and forces himself to leave the room before he can think too hard about his choices.

When he arrives to the gym, Winston is already overseeing the process of partnering off agents into sparring pairs. Several matches are already underway; Lúcio and Mei are fighting, oddly gently, in the corner, Angela and Lena are off to the side, and Hana and Genji are somehow keeping up a steady stream of chatter while they throw punches. Hanzo frowns in slight annoyance--he had wanted to corner Genji and demand why he had left the meditation that morning, but now it will have to wait. The agitation is quickly replaced by a cold sort of horror when he catches sight of Reinhardt, who is the only other person in the room who has not been paired off. Despite his skills, Hanzo does _not_ relish the thought of sparring against the giant.

“Hanzo!”

Oh thank god.

“McCree,” he greets as he turns back, finding the man just entering the gym. “You actually made it on time. I’m impressed.”

“Smartass.” McCree smacks the back of his hand against Hanzo’s shoulder with a laugh. “I miss anythin’?”

“Not as far as I can tell. Seems that everyone has just begun.” Hanzo smirks. “I am in need of a partner, if you think you can handle it.”

“Hey now, I’m scrappy,” McCree protests, already leading the way toward an open section on the mat-covered floor.

“If you say so,” he responds mildly, running through a few of his own stretches. “But I will not go easy on you.”

“Oh please, you’re gonna be beggin’ me to take it easy by the end.” McCree spins on his heel to face him and stops. Hanzo feels a flicker of satisfaction as he watches McCree pause, glance down and up again, and swallow hard. McCree tries to cover himself by twisting into another stretch, arm stretched across his body, but the damage is done.

“Oughta wear that color more often,” he says, head turned away.

“Oh?”

“Looks good on you.”

Hanzo feels himself flush, but rather than turning away with a dismissive comment, he feels the urge to respond in kind. He puts on a teasing smile and makes a show of dragging his gaze, slowly and indulgently, down McCree’s body and back up again. Although McCree’s middle is softer than it probably was in years past, his chest and shoulders are solid, bulky muscle barely softened by the worn t-shirt covering them. Hanzo has no doubt that McCree is just as strong as he has ever been, any lingering fat merely a facade for the true strength hidden underneath.

By the time he makes eye contact again, McCree’s face has gone a ruddy shade of pink, and he is watching Hanzo with confusion.

“I would say it suits you more,” he remarks. Then, before McCree can respond, “Shall we begin?”

McCree visibly flounders, caught off-guard by the brazen flirting just as he was the other night. Hanzo has to fight down a self-satisfied smile. “Y-yeah,” McCree stutters, giving a little shake of his head to center himself. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Hanzo sinks back into the familiar fighting position, his weight resting lightly on the balls of his feet. He watches McCree do the same, although his stance is much looser and from no martial art that Hanzo has ever known. Unlikely McCree has ever had that sort of training, yet the fact that he has survived as long as he has suggests that he is capable. This promises to be an interesting match.

They spend a long moment circling each other, eying each other’s stances and gauging weakness. McCree throws the first punch, a quick jab that Hanzo easily parries, followed by a hook from his opposite hand that is likewise countered. McCree steps back quickly, ducking away from any attempts at retaliation Hanzo might immediately make. Hanzo waits, his hands raised, inhaling a deep breath as he waits for McCree to make his next move.

When McCree comes at him again, it is in a flurry of motion. Two jabs with his left hand force Hanzo to block and then weave away, followed by another punch from his right that Hanzo catches against his forearm. McCree advances quickly, keeping Hanzo on the defensive with a rapid flurry of blows that leave Hanzo on his toes, his focus on blocking each incoming strike. He is surprised by the speed with which McCree moves and finds himself more occupied than he expects, throwing rare punches in-between dodges and blocks.

It is nearly a minute before McCree slips up, overshooting an elbow jab just enough that Hanzo can slip in a punch that connects solidly with his ribs. McCree stumbles off-balance and Hanzo immediately shifts onto the attack with a series of quick strikes. McCree visibly struggles to keep up with Hanzo’s pace now that he has to defend, and tries to back away as he blocks.

“Hell,” he breathes, throwing up in arm and twisting to push away Hanzo’s incoming fist. “Forgot how damn fast you Shimadas were.”

“It happens when you are trained from birth,” Hanzo replies easily. He lands another blow against McCree’s shoulder, which pushes McCree at an angle. Before he can recover, Hanzo pushes into McCree’s space, hooks his foot behind McCree’s, and yanks. McCree gives a startled shout as he pitches backward and hits the mat, flat on his back. He groans softly, and Hanzo stands over him with hands on his hips.

“As I said,” he chuckles. “I did not plan on going easy.”

McCree laughs, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Would you look at that,” he says with a grin. “Looks like I’ve fallen for you, darlin’.”

Hanzo barks out a disbelieving laugh. “You cannot be serious.”

“How dare you accuse me of not bein’ serious!” McCree says in feigned shock, slapping a hand over his chest. “I mean every word. I love a man who can kick my ass.”

Hanzo raises a brow, and while he is trying to determine just how to respond to that comment, McCree takes advantage. Hanzo’s only warning is the flash of a smile on McCree’s face before he feels something kick in the back of his knee. He crumples, and McCree is up in a flash. He shoves Hanzo back, bodily pinning him to the floor with his hands restrained tightly on either side of his head.

Hanzo wheezes as he finds himself staring up at the ceiling, until McCree’s grinning face comes into view. “Like _I_ said, I’m scrappy,” he says.

“So it seems.” Hanzo tries to wiggle out of McCree’s grip, but McCree holds firm. Hanzo swallows as McCree shifts, becoming abruptly aware of the position they’re in.  Something hot flares to life low in his belly. This close, he can see the fine beads of sweat dotting McCree’s brow and the flush of exertion in his cheeks. His eyes look like copper again, bright with the thrill of victory.

“You underestimate me, Hanzo,” McCree continues, apparently unaware of Hanzo’s growing distress. He sits back, which does nothing for Hanzo’s predicament when it leaves him straddling Hanzo’s hips.

“On the contrary,” Hanzo says, a little breathier than intended. “I think quite highly of you.”

“Is that so.”

“Indeed.” Hanzo quirks the corner of his mouth in a smile. “Now are you going to let me up, or are you going to make this worth my while, cowboy?”

McCree’s expression shifts instantly from one of smug superiority to one of surprise and poorly-concealed arousal. He opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Hanzo looks over at Winston, who has stopped beside them, looking down with an eyebrow raised and a tablet in hand.

“Having fun, gentleman?” he asks dryly.

McCree coughs and gets to his feet. “You could say that,” he says, offering a hand to help Hanzo up.

“Right . . .” Winston turns his attention back to his tablet. “Your fighting looks good, but you may want to reconsider the ‘lying on the ground’ part during missions.” He ambles off, tapping out notes on his tablet as he moves onto the next pair. Hanzo wipes a hand down his face, embarrassed to have been caught doing . . . whatever that was.

Flirting, he admits to himself. He has been openly flirting with McCree all afternoon, and one or two other times besides. When the realization hits in full, his stomach gives a jolt of anxiety--but then it dissipates almost immediately. Hanzo is left with only the faintest trace of worry on the edge of his mind, and it’s easy to ignore in favor of savoring the tentatively hopeful, still slightly-aroused look on McCree’s face.

 

\--

 

It’s so easy now that Hanzo almost doesn’t know how to handle it.  

McCree has always flirted at him, but now Hanzo finds himself simply accepting the compliments as they come, or laughing at terrible innuendoes. Sometimes he flirts back, and McCree never seems to know how to respond; it is always worth it to see the way McCree’s smile drops into an expression of embarrassed confusion, his quick wit stumped by an offhand comment. When he meets with McCree for drinks or training or just conversation, he simply basks in the attention and the comfort of having a good friend--or object of affection--in his company. He is, in fact, driven to finding McCree specifically to spend time with him more in the next few days than he has been in the last two months. He seeks out chances to casually touch--brushing fingertips while handing over cups, bumping shoulders as they pass each other, leaning over McCree’s shoulder to look at items of interest. McCree never seems to react, whether out of respect or uncertainty, but Hanzo can see the pleasure he derives from it written plainly on his face.

It has been years since Hanzo last felt like this, but he recognizes the feelings of early infatuation. He finds he does not mind them at all.

On one particularly boring day, with no missions or group trainings to distract them, Hanzo approaches McCree with a familiar, often-made bet: highest score in a training simulation wins. McCree accepts without hesitation, and they set up in the arena and tear off in opposite directions as soon as the starting alarm rings. Hanzo is quick to rack up his score, but McCree is close behind, and they tease each other through the comms as the simulated mission progresses.

Hanzo is already at five and has barely stopped.. It is only then that he allows himself to slow down, knowing he has enough points to take a little bit of time. He pauses just long enough to line up his shots, standing atop one of the empty buildings. Two bots wander out of the open room down below and into his view; not a second later, both collapse as an arrow punctures each through the middle of their chasses.

“Hanzo seven, McCree five,” announces Athena overhead. “One minute remaining in the simulation.”

“ _Oh, you sneaky piece of shit_ ,” McCree mutters. Hanzo casts a glance over the training arena from his rooftop view, but cannot see where McCree has gone.

He laughs and replies, “You had better keep up, cowboy. I would hate to win _all_ of our bets.”

“ _You little--_ ” Whatever McCree was about to say is cut off by the ring of a gunshot, echoing off the steel walls of the arena.

“McCree six, Hanzo seven.”

“ _Ha!_ ” McCree crows. “ _You ain’t gonna win this one!_ ”

“I will be impressed when you actually reach my score.” Hanzo slides down the wall and takes off down a narrow path, setting a new arrow against the string as he goes. He receives no response over his comm, and assumes McCree has redoubled his efforts. Admittedly, there is a certain amount of luck in these drills in just finding targets, and he has probably been a bit luckier, but he will take his triumph where he can.

When he rounds the corner at the end of the alley, he finds only silence. Experience, however, has told him he is not alone. He trades his plain arrow for a sonic one, scans the area, and chooses his point.

“McCree seven, Hanzo seven,” announces Athena. “Thirty seconds remaining.”

“ _What were you sayin’ before, Hanzo?”_

Hanzo chuckles quietly and fires his arrow. It sticks against the top of an archway, releasing a pulsing bubble of soft blue light that quickly dissipates. The sonar remains, however, and reveals the heat of two more omnics just around the other side of the arch.

Another gunshot in the distance. “McCree eight, Hanzo seven.”

McCree’s laughter rings over the comm, raucous and self-satisfied. “ _I think I got this one, partner,_ ” he says. “ _Just so you know, I’m gonna want the good whiskey for my payment this time._ ”

Hanzo doesn’t respond. He scales the building beside him and creeps to the edge, which gives him a perfect view of the roaming bots down below. He slides a scatter arrow from his quiver, calculates his angle, and fires.

The arrow streaks across the distance, striking sharp against the steel wall. The head fractures perfectly into its fragments, which rebound and strike down both bots nearly simultaneously.

“Hanzo nine, McCree eight. The simulation is complete. Victory is awarded to Agent Hanzo.”

“ _How in the_ hell--” McCree cuts off as he comes into view on the path below. He turns around, seeking Hanzo, before looking up. Hanzo grins down at him, shouldering his bow. “Right at the end. You sneaky bastard.”

Hanzo laughs as he jumps down beside McCree. “Perhaps next time,” he teases.

“Oh, don’t act like I ain’t ever won. We’re fifty-fifty.”

“But that does not change the fact that I won our bet _tonight_.”

“Yeah, yeah.” McCree sighs in exaggerated exasperation. “I guess that means I owe you a box of that tea you like so much. I’ll pay up next time we make a supply run.”

“See that you do.”

Hanzo watches as McCree thumbs the chamber of his gun and reloads with practiced ease. Peacekeeper is an antiquated weapon by all standards, yet he is more deadly with it than any soldier with a modern plasma rifle. Hanzo has learned just how foolish it is to underestimate McCree on the battlefield. The man is surprising grace and sharp tactics, a quick hand and deadly accuracy dressed up in a ragged hat and flashy _serape_. He has caught McCree staring at him before during a fight, but he wonders if the man realizes just how fascinating it is to watch _him_ on the field: unassuming, too casual, but often the most dangerous thing in the fight.

That warm, light feeling swells in his chest again, and Hanzo finds himself grinning without really knowing why. Post-battle adrenaline still lingers in his blood, lending him the clarity to realize, all at once, just how much he cares for the man in front of him. All the familiar urges come back again--to feel skin under his fingertips, to chase the lingering taste of cigarillo smoke, to feel the plane of a broad chest pressed against his own.

He waits, expecting the usual panic and doubt to overshadow it all, but it never comes.

“Jesse,” he says, and McCree immediately turns to look at him. His smile is content and genuine, brows raised in question. It’s a simple gesture, but it somehow solidifies Hanzo’s conviction for the simple fact that McCree is genuinely, unfailingly happy to be around him.

Hanzo raises a hand and curls a finger under McCree’s chin, thumb pressed just under his bottom lip. McCree’s smile drops instantly, replaced by a startled expression.

“Uh,” McCree says, before clearing his throat. “Hello, darlin’.”

“Hello,” Hanzo murmurs.

He watches the flicker of McCree’s tongue across his bottom lip. “Can I help you with somethin’?”

Hanzo’s heart pounds under his ribs, but he feels perfectly steady. “Yes,” he says, and leans up.

The sharp inhale he hears McCree make as their mouths meet is satisfying, though not nearly so much as the moment when McCree pulls himself together to kiss back. Almost immediately, however, McCree draws back abruptly, though he doesn’t move more than a few inches away. His eyes search Hanzo’s, dark and wide with a mix of shock and want. “I thought you didn’t want this,” he whispers roughly.

“I said I was not certain,” Hanzo replies. He lets his hand drift to the back of McCree’s neck, sliding through surprisingly soft hair. “And now I am.” He tugs with the tips of his fingers to guide McCree down and meets no resistance at all.

Whereas McCree hesitated before, this becomes desperate, a channel for pent-up longing. McCree loops one arm tight about Hanzo’s back, his other hand settling along the side of his face. Hanzo threads his hands through McCree’s hair and allows himself to be pulled in close, reveling in the feel of McCree’s body solid and warm against his, mouth warm and earnest. He allows the tentative flick of McCree’s tongue against the seam of his lips and the scrape of his wild beard against his skin. He allows himself to comb one hand through McCree’s bangs with a tenderness he didn’t think he could manage, and allows himself to simply give himself over without doubting himself at all.

Hanzo is the one to pull away after a long, sweet minute, reluctant but becoming all too aware of the strain in his neck and the openness of the wide room. He feels a little burst of pride when McCree tries to follow his lips and then stops, eyes fluttering open in slow confusion. It makes him want to dive back in, damn the consequences, but the training arena is not an ideal location.

“Hanzo?” McCree murmurs.

“Jesse.” A wide, crooked grin spreads across McCree’s face. Hanzo tips his head up to leave a chaste kiss on his lips before continuing, “As enjoyable as this is, I’m beginning to think we will want somewhere more private if we want to continue.”

“That’s just about the damn best idea I’ve ever heard,” McCree says, flexing his fingers where they grip Hanzo’s waist. He strokes Hanzo’s cheek with his thumb in a repetitive, soothing motion that has Hanzo resisting the urge to lean into his touch. “You sure about this? Had me a bit confused the last few days. Not really sure where we stand.”

Hanzo grins, slow and sultry. He slides out from McCree’s hold and grabs his hand, tugging him forward. “I am sure,” he answers. “But if you would rather stay here and continue asking questions . . .”

“Aw, hell,” McCree breathes, stumbling for a few steps until he gets his feet under himself. “Lead the way, sweetheart.”

Hanzo does, hand tight around McCree’s to lead him along through the base, their string a promising tether between them.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry. 
> 
> Also, this is the chapter that earns the M-rating, so if you're not into that (can't imagine why you wouldn't be, if you got this far), skip the first section to the morning after. P:

McCree is pretty well certain he’s died and gone to heaven, and the only thing convincing him otherwise is the solid ground under his feet.

The last few days have been some sort of blissful nightmare. He doesn’t know exactly what led to the turnaround, but he would be a fool to miss the change. Hanzo had gone from stiff and unreceptive to boldly flirtatious, all wicked innuendo and suggestive looks that left McCree flushed with want and pleasant surprise every time. Yet simultaneously, his gentle touches and casual proximity spoke of something less crude and more affectionate, which left him just as off-kilter as anything else. Despite all of this, Hanzo had still remained at a distance, neither confirming nor denying a desire for a change in their relationship.

Until today.

Hanzo tugs him along by the hand, leading the way to the dorms with a confident stride.

His lips still tingle faintly from their kiss, his heart feels full to bursting, and he feels slightly lightheaded from how quickly everything is moving. He doesn’t know whether to stop and demand an explanation or just pin Hanzo against the nearest wall for another kiss. He ends up doing neither and just lets Hanzo lead, out of the training arena and across the base, making a beeline for the privacy of their rooms.

When they reach the dorms, he half-expects to stop in his room, but instead Hanzo drags him further down the hall toward his own. Finally, he turns around, looking just a bit bashful.

“I realize this may be a bit . . . presumptuous,” he says slowly. “If I have overstepped--”

“Sugar, you can presume all you want,” McCree interrupts breathlessly. He steps in close and rests his hands on Hanzo’s hips, unable to stand not touching. “Chances are I’m already way ahead of you, believe me.”

Hanzo’s responding grin is nothing short of dazzling. He turns to tap in his passcode, and the door has barely whooshed open before he’s ushering them both inside.

The moment the door closes again, McCree presses Hanzo up against the wall and dips his head for another kiss. Hanzo chuckles as he’s pushed back, which melts into a pleased hum when his mouth meets McCree’s. His lips part eagerly under McCree’s, welcoming the stroke of his tongue, and stroking a hand down his flank to grip his thigh draws out a soft, breathless groan. But Hanzo's words niggle at the back of McCree's mind like a persistent itch the entire time, buzzing for attention until he is forced to break away.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he sighs, while Hanzo gives him a look that is simultaneously concerned and annoyed. “I don’t get it, actually. For two months you didn’t want to touch any of this, then suddenly here we are? I ain’t complainin’, per se, but it’s enough to give a man whiplash.”

Hanzo drops his gaze, releasing his hold on Jesse’s _serape_ to flatten his hands against his chest. He seems to consider his words for a long moment before he speaks. “As I said, I was uncertain,” he says. “I have always wanted this in some capacity, I think. I have never disliked you.”

“Okay,” McCree says. “So why the change of heart?”

 “I . . . I suppose I simply realized what I wanted. Not only that, but I could have it.” Hanzo looks up again, his eyes beseeching. “It is complicated, and admittedly, I was hoping we could avoid discussing it for now. I will explain more later if you wish, but for now, is it not enough that I want this?”

McCree smiles helplessly, worry bleeding away as he takes in the heartfelt look in Hanzo’s dark eyes. “Y’know, it just might be,” he replies. “Just one more question though.”

“What is it now?”

“How far were you plannin’ on takin’ this?” McCree drops a kiss on the edge of Hanzo’s jaw before he continues. “Because as happy as I am to kiss you against the wall all night, I was also thinking of ridin’ you until you saw stars, if you’re interested in that kinda thing.”

He hears Hanzo take in a sharp breath between his teeth and grins. “Is that a yes?”

“I certainly didn’t bring you here so that you could _talk_ all night.” Hanzo smirks and gives McCree a little push back. He shrugs off his bow and quiver, sets them gently against the wall, and crosses the room to sit on the bed.

McCree pauses for longer than he means, entranced as he watches Hanzo undo the needlessly complicated latches on his boots and slide them off. Hanzo’s legs are surprisingly delicate, slim but strong with muscle. He has the urge to run his hands up the smooth skin, and has to take a second to remember that he will be allowed to.

He can feel the stupid grin stretch across his face as he crosses the room and slides onto the bed, angling himself to sit behind Hanzo. “I’ll be honest, I kinda thought those were prosthetics for awhile,” he says, nuzzling his nose behind Hanzo’s ear to make him squirm.

“You are not the first.”

There’s a sour note to the tone that makes McCree think again about teasing him further. “S’alright,” he murmurs into the side of Hanzo’s neck. “You’re goddamn perfect. Every last bit of you.” He presses a kiss to the skin under his lips, which earns him a tiny, bitten-off noise. Grinning, he wraps his arms around Hanzo’s middle and kisses again. Hanzo arches his neck, an open invitation to continue.

“I’m gonna be,” he says, planting another kiss at the curve where neck meets shoulder, “so damn good to you.” Two more kisses, moving upward. He slips a hand under the open collar of Hanzo’s _gi_ , pressing with intent against his pec and shoulder before nudging the sleeve down. Hanzo hums with pleasure. “If you let me. God, I want to.”

“Yes,” Hanzo sighs, turning his head to intercept the next kiss with his own mouth. McCree leans into it willingly, his exploration of Hanzo’s chest briefly forgotten. Without breaking away, Hanzo twists to face him and pushes against his chest, urging him to lay back on the bed while simultaneously flicking open the buttons of his shirt. McCree laughs a little as he tries to comply with both lying down and shrugging off his shirt.

“Hold on, darlin’, ain’t no rush,” he chuckles. “I’m talented, but I ain’t that talented.” He finally manages to wrest the shirt off his shoulders and tosses it to the floor, a spot of clutter in the otherwise pristine bedroom. Hanzo follows suit, tugging his _gi_ off and dropping it over the edge of the bed. His _obi_ goes with it, leaving him clad in just his pants, which hang sinfully low on his hips to hint at what’s beneath.

“Holy hell,” McCree breathes, “you are the single prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

A faintly embarrassed look comes over Hanzo’s face, and he dips down to kiss McCree hard--and presumably to shut him up. McCree chuckles as he leans back onto his elbows, letting Hanzo pluck open his belt and the button of his jeans. He drops his head back as Hanzo reaches his hand into the vee of his open jeans and palms him through his boxers, which are far too constricting at this point.

“You have stuff?” he asks breathily, scooting down awkwardly to pull off his boxers and jeans in one go, getting stuck where Hanzo sits across his thighs.

“Stuff?” Hanzo sits back, a little furrow forming between his eyebrows.

“Lube? Condoms? I mean, one’s kinda necessary and the other, well, I’m not--I was cleared at my last physical and I ain’t exactly been with anyone, but it’s a bit--”

“In the drawer,” Hanzo interrupts, stopping the incoherent babble for him. McCree reaches over and manages to extract an unopened bottle and box, feeling faintly embarrassed by his inability to form a real thought. He pushes the bottle into Hanzo’s hands, drops the box to the side, and tugs at the waistband of Hanzo’s pants.

“Off,” he whines, torn between pulling Hanzo close and pushing him away to get undressed. “All of it off.”

The low chuckle Hanzo gives in response almost undoes him right there.

They finish undressing quickly, and the moment the last article is dropped on the floor, McCree pushes back into Hanzo’s space. He insinuates himself into Hanzo’s lap, rolling his hips once in a torturous grind just to see Hanzo bite his lip. Now that they’ve both disrobed, however, the disparity between their bodies becomes extremely obvious. McCree has never thought of himself as _bad_ -looking by any means, but he knows he’s gotten lazy the last few years--a little too much instant food and alcohol consumed on the run. His belly is chubby, his thighs a bit softer, and the hair on his chest and stomach only ever gets darker. In comparison, Hanzo is all chiseled muscle and smooth skin with the barest smattering of fine hair. It’s enough to make any man a little self-conscious when put side-by-side like this.

“Sorry I ain’t much to look at,” he chuckles uncomfortably. Hanzo looks up from opening the bottle. His eyes narrow, and at first Jesse thinks he’s somehow done something wrong by being self-deprecating.

“Nonsense,” Hanzo says matter-of-factly. He clicks open the bottle in one hand, the other smoothing up McCree’s thigh, his flank, then his shoulder, finally gripping the back of his neck. “I’ve thought you a handsome man since the first day I arrived.”

“Oh sure, I got a pretty face, but--”

“Jesse,” Hanzo interrupts seriously, fingers tangling in his hair. He leans up for a kiss and murmurs against his lips, “You are perfect. Stop worrying. You made a promise to, what was it--ride me until I saw stars? I would much rather you focus on that.”

McCree feels the graze of slick fingertips down his lower back. “Sure thing,” he breathes as Hanzo’s hand moves lower still, until he forgets to be self-conscious at all.

Hanzo’s touch is thorough but surprisingly gentle, and it only takes a moment for the mild pain to dissolve into sparks of pleasure. He rocks between Hanzo’s hands and his mouth, angling for a deep kiss that eventually becomes nothing more than a whine for more, until he has to break away to fumble for the discarded box.

Extracting a single foil packet takes far more effort than it should, let alone opening it. Hanzo huffs a laugh as he watches McCree finally give in and tear open the packet with his teeth, but his mirth is short-lived when McCree shifts to finally sink down into his lap properly. McCree grins as he watches Hanzo drop his head back onto the pillows behind him, lips parted around a silent moan.

“Good?” he asks, shifting in a way that makes Hanzo gasp.

“ _Very_ ,” Hanzo sighs. He plants his feet and grips McCree’s hips in both hands. “Although it would be better if you stopped being smug and _moved_.” He punctuates the statement with a roll of his hips upward, which leaves McCree breathless and very much in agreement.

As they settle into a rhythm, McCree leans down for another kiss, swallowing the soft groans that pass Hanzo’s lips. He manages to get hold of the tie still in Hanzo’s hair and tugs it free, tangling his hands in thick, dark locks and fighting not to grip too tightly as their pace picks up. “You’re so perfect,” he breathes between messy kisses. “Jesus _fuck_ you’re so good, so perfect, darlin’--”

The affectionate babble seems to embarrass Hanzo, who mutters a half-hearted “shut up” against his mouth before burying his face in the side of McCree’s neck. McCree laughs and continues, “Sweetheart, sugar, apple of my eye, the moon and stars above--”

Hanzo mutters something and thrusts, hard, and that effectively removes all coherent thought from McCree’s head for the next several minutes.

Hanzo peaks first, gasping out McCree’s name as his fingertips dig into McCree’s sides. The sight of Hanzo underneath him, head tossed back, hair spread in a dark halo across the pillows, has McCree desperately getting a hand on himself to follow. Once Hanzo’s fingers twine with his, it only takes a few strokes before McCree is over the edge as well, swearing and moaning praise all the while.

As he comes down, he opens his eyes to the most open, satisfied, sweetest grin he has even seen on Hanzo’s face. McCree’s heart almost stops all over again, and he can’t stop himself from leaning down to taste that smile for himself.

“Lord, I like ya so much,” he whispers, with what he suspects is a dopey grin of his own.

Hanzo smile takes on a shy edge, but he nonetheless replies, with startling sincerity, “I like you as well.”

McCree can’t stop smiling, throughout the process of cleaning up and settling down for sleep. Every times he steals a glance in Hanzo’s direction, he sees him smiling, too.

 

\--

 

McCree wakes in the morning to the muffled, insistent musical chime of a phone. He tries to ignore it at first, but pulling his blanket over his head doesn’t stop the noise from repeating.

“Apologies,” rumbles a voice beside him. A body presses up against his back as the other person reaches an arm over him toward a discarded pair of pants on the floor. McCree smiles as he recognizes the intricate dragon tattoo stretching over him.

Hanzo digs out his phone from his pocket, swipes at something on the screen, and drops the device onto his bedside table. “My alarm,” he explains, his voice delightfully roughened by sleep. “I did not think to turn it off last night.”

“A man ain’t meant to get up this early,” McCree grumbles, though he can’t stop the grin already forming on his face.

“My apologies,” Hanzo says again. His breath ghosts against McCree’s skin as he tucks his nose into his neck and drapes his arm over McCree’s ribs. “Normally I wake at six to run, before breakfast with the others.”

“Not gonna today?”

“Mm, I think not. Unless you would like to join me.”

“Not a chance in hell. Six in the mornin’, what kinda bullshit is that.” McCree rolls onto his other side to face Hanzo, tucking his arm under his head. His heart stutters as he takes in the sight of the sleep-rumpled man sharing his bed--hair askew, faint stubble blurring the line of his well-kept beard, a sleepy smile on his face.

“Mornin’, darlin’,” McCree murmurs.

“Good morning,” Hanzo replies. McCree laughs softly, which makes that little furrow appear between Hanzo’s brows. “What?”

“Nothin’. Just can’t believe that I’m here.” He lifts a hand to push Hanzo’s hair from his face, lingering with his palm pressed to his jaw. “Was really startin’ to think we weren’t gonna end up here. Which, y’know, if that happened, it happened, but . . .”

Hanzo rests a hand over his, turning his face into McCree’s touch. “As I said, it was never that I did not want you,” he says.

“Well, no. But I didn’t want it to end up like one of those stories you hear about where they don’t want the same thing. Woulda broken my heart if we’d been like that.”

Hanzo hums and presses a kiss to McCree’s hand. “I am sorry it took me so long,” he murmurs.

“Oh, sweetheart, you ain’t gotta be sorry for that.” McCree scoots closer, until he can put his head on Hanzo’s pillow and brush their noses together. “Don’t ever apologize for that. Yeah, I mean, it hurt a bit, but I wouldn’t have dreamed of havin’ you until you were ready. We got here eventually.”

Hanzo looks like he wants to protest further, but he says nothing.

“So,” McCree continues, taking back his hand to rest on the bed between them. Hanzo bumps his own fingertips against the side of his hand, like he wants to touch but is too hesitant to do so. “I get the part where you said you realized you wanted all this, but I don’t get the rest of it. There was way more to the whole thing than just tryin’ to figure out if you liked me, right?”

Hanzo nods, his gaze locked on their hands. “I have been alone for a long time,” he says quietly. “I did so by choice, because I was not worthy of companionship after what I did. I am still not entirely convinced I have done right, but recently I was shown that perhaps I have allowed my past to control my present too much.” He pauses for a long second. “And perhaps you were correct--I needed someone who could help me understand all of this. And this is what you are.”

“Oh, darlin’,” McCree breathes, his chest swelling with affection and sympathy all at once. He leans in to kiss Hanzo’s forehead and lingers, lips brushing skin. “I’ve always been real sweet on you, and that ain’t gonna change anytime soon, believe me.”

Hanzo starts to respond but is interrupted by a chime from his tablet, lying on the desk on the other side of the room. “You have received a message from Winston,” announces Athena helpfully.

McCree watches Hanzo sigh as he turns his head to better address the AI. “Is it mission-critical?”

“Yes, Agent Hanzo. You are requested to debrief for a mission after breakfast with Agents McCree, Lena, and Angela. Departure time is three o’clock PM this afternoon.”

McCree groans and buries his face in the pillow. “Just our luck,” he whines. “I don’t wanna go on a mission. Rather stay here in bed all day with you.”

“I think that would be impractical even if we did not have a mission.”

“You never had just a lazy day in bed?” Hanzo shakes his head. “That is a _crime_. I’ll make it right by you, sweetheart. Soon as this mission’s done, we are spending the entire day in bed. Entire day. I’ll spoil you the whole time.”

“Is that a promise?” Hanzo asks, one eyebrow lifting by a fraction of an inch.

“Sure is.” McCree leans in for a kiss, which Hanzo accepts for about two seconds before pulling back and wrinkling his nose.

“Brush your teeth before you do that,” he says, pushing himself into an upright position before McCree can respond. “I am going to have a shower before breakfast.”

McCree must be showing his disappointment, because Hanzo pauses for just a moment with an odd look on his face. Then he bends down and kisses the corner of McCree’s mouth. “Finish with that and then join me,” he murmurs, lips grazing the shell of McCree’s ear before he is suddenly up again, climbing out of bed and padding to the bathroom.

McCree nearly trips over himself in his haste to get up.

\--

As it turns out, the mission Winston has prepared for them is in New Mexico.

“You serious?” McCree says in disbelief. “You realize I’ve got a bounty on my head of like sixty million, don’t you?”

“Yes, I am aware,” Winston says, adjusting his glasses primly on his nose. “But you’re also the only one who knows anything about the Deadlock Gang. I’ve noticed some extra activity in the area and I’m concerned that they might be trying to get started up again. Given precisely how far they were able to spread, and how Talon seems to be recruiting and sticking their noses where they don’t belong . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” McCree sighs. “Just didn’t think I’d be back there so soon.”

“You won’t be alone,” Winston reminds him. “There’s a reason I’m sending two of the older agents with you, after all, in addition to Hanzo.”

“Do not worry,” Hanzo says beside him. “I will be there to save you, as usual.” His smile is teasing, but there’s a serious note underneath it that makes Lena and Angela exchange glances and a little bubble of warmth burst in McCree’s stomach.

The flight to the States is tedious and unremarkable, save for the blissful two hours where he is permitted to nap with his head in Hanzo’s lap. They touch down in the middle of orange, rocky desert, surrounded on all sides by nothing but scrubby desert plants and the occasional jagged cliffside. The safehouse is an old Overwatch set-up that was never taken down, filled with old equipment under a layer of dust half an inch thick. That evening is spent cleaning everything up enough to turn the safehouse into something semi-habitable, followed by sleeping off their collective jetlag.

They mobilize the next day, setting out on a long march across the dusty landscape. McCree regrets his choice of attire--the desert sun is sweltering, and it’s mere minutes before he can feel the sweat trickling down the small of his back, despite the cooling vents built into his breastplate. A glance at the others reveals that they are much the same--Lena shed her pilot’s jacket before ever stepping outdoors, and Angela’s expression is one of exhaustion thanks to her Valkyrie suit. Hanzo is probably the most prepared of them in a white cotton _gi_ that hangs off his shoulder, but even so, perspiration beads his face and settles in the hollow of his throat. Hanzo catches him looking and gives a private, smug smile.

“Lord have mercy,” McCree sighs, fanning himself with his hat. The ladies agree, unaware of the true source of his misery.

Their destination is a tiny, unnamed town in Deadlock Gorge that serves little more function than as a highway pit stop. McCree is familiar with the location--the coffee at the local diner was always terrible, and the gas station has been mostly irrelevant for thirty years with the advances in transportation technology. Still, the quiet town has long served as a prime location for Deadlock activity, and Winston’s surveillance indicates that a few more have been spotted in the area lately. The objective is simple: find any pockets of Deadlocks squirreled away in the gorge and clear them all out.

“Alright,” McCree says as they approach the edge of the little town, “stick close. Can’t afford to break up out here, and Deadlocks always liked to pick off the weakest first.”

“C’mon, love. What’s that you said before? ‘It ain’t our first rodeo?’” Lena laughs, her dual pistols out of their holsters in a flash. “We’ll be fine! Just keep your heads on straight and we’ll be headed home in time for tea. I’ll take a look ahead and be back in a tick.” Without waiting for a response, she flickers out of sight in a flash of blue, streaking down the road. The trails of light from her chronal accelerator linger for just a fraction of a moment, then disappear just as Lena did.

“She is eager, I’ll give her that,” Hanzo says mildly.

“Yeah, but don’t let that fool you. There’s a reason she’s in Overwatch. Girl’s a real demon when she needs to be.”

“Of that I do not doubt.”

The rest of them continue down the road at a regular pace, McCree taking the point with Angela and Hanzo close behind. Just walking through the old town, familiar as it is, makes McCree uneasy. He walks with his hand resting on Peacekeeper, ready to draw at a moment’s notice, but other than them, there doesn’t appear to be a soul alive.

“ _Looks pretty empty so far_ ,” Lena reports over the comms.

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t hiding somewhere, though,” Angela replies, her grip tightening on her staff. McCree nods his agreement.

Hanzo suddenly whips to the side, an arrow nocked in his bow. McCree turns to follow his aim just in time to watch the arrow puncture the chest of a man standing on a rocky ledge fifty feet away, sheltered by the opening of a small cave in the wall.

“The enemy is here!” Hanzo announces, already grabbing for another arrow. He fires a sonic arrow into the cave opening, and as the sonar pulses gently, it reveals the heated outlines of multiple figures hiding--and moving toward their location.

“Tracer, pull back!” McCree orders, Peacekeeper out and aimed in a flash.

“ _On it!_ ” A burst of gunfire follows over the comms. “ _Got some bogies coming this way, too! Keep an eye out!”_

“Everyone be careful,” Angela warns, her staff up and at the ready. The head glows with the soft yellow light of a biotic field--no doubt that it will be put to use in this fight.

Hanzo follows his sonic arrow with a scatter arrow, which fells one of the oncoming figures but appears to just miss the others. Three people pour out of the cave onto the ledge, guns raised and firing. McCree barely gets off a shot, which misses and skips off the rock, and dives for cover with Angela around the corner of the abandoned gas station.

“Now where’s the fun in that?” McCree grins as he raises his gun, listening to the sounds of the fight. A few more shots sound, followed by silence. He takes the chance to swing back around the corner, Peacekeeper at the ready. Three men in ripped leather coats line the ledge, scanning for their next targets. He fires three shots, and three men crumple to the ground. He allows himself a moment as he reloads his gun, which is short-lived as his comm crackles to life.

“ _Here they come again!_ ” Lena announces. “ _Big group of them headed right your way! I’m going to flank them but be careful!_ ”

An arrows streaks ahead from somewhere up above, though McCree can see neither the source nor the target. But as he watches, he sees the oncoming group of Deadlock gang members round the curve of the road.

“McCree, you sorry bastard!” someone yells, a voice McCree can vaguely recognize but not put to a face. “Made a damn fool of yourself comin’ back here!” A gunshot skips off the wall by McCree’s head, forcing him to duck back into cover.

“Friends of yours?” Angela asks, her staff whirring to life. The soft yellow beam envelops McCree’s body for just a moment, warm and comforting: not necessary healing, but a soft reset on his body nonetheless.

“Mighta been,” he agrees mildly. “I’m goin’ round the other side. Stick close and stay outta trouble. Hanzo, where are you at?”

“ _Having difficulty maintaining a vantage point. There is nowhere far enough away to stay out of their range.”_

“That’s alright, just be careful.” McCree breaks off into a sprint to the other side of the building, reaching for a flashbang as he goes. Angela is close behind, a supportive presence. As he turns the other corner, he finds himself right next to several of the oncoming gang members around. Surprisingly, he recognizes a couple of the old faces, although it doesn’t stop him from hurling a flashbang directly into those faces. There’s an outcry as the grenade bursts bright.

“ _Coming in!_ ” Lena shouts. There’s a flash of blue and a giggle of laughter, and McCree has just enough time to see the pulse bomb dropped on the ground before it explodes, sending the men scattering--some alive but dazed as they hit the ground several feet away, others less lucky.

Hanzo suddenly drops down beside him from the rooftop above, arrow nocked, and gives him a quick look. McCree gives a nod and a tip of his hat, and together they lift their weapons against the Deadlocks rising to their feet on all sides.

They’re shoved into a close-quarters fight by the environment and the scattered Deadlocks both. McCree worries for his safety and Hanzo’s both, but finds that there is not a single break in their flow. He feels the air break as an arrow whistles past his ear, embedding itself deeply in the throat of an oncoming woman, and in turn he whips around and fires off three shots at a group around Hanzo’s shoulder. Hanzo’s back brushes up against his as they turn near-simultaneously, picking new targets and protecting each other. The intermittent rattling fire of Lena’s pistols provides cover, and Angela stands nearby, a pistol in one hand and her staff in the other, ready to defend.

“Getting tired, gunslinger?” Hanzo teases, drawing another arrow and bumping his elbow against McCree’s as he does.

“Ain’t a chance in hell, _archer_ ,” McCree replies around a breath of laughter. He reaches for a fresh belt of ammo just as a metal cannister bounces to the ground by his feet--a grenade. “Oh, shit--Hanzo, move!”

He throws himself into a roll to the side just before the grenade explodes. He misses the worst of it, but he can feel the heat of it at his back and the disturbance of the air whip at his _serape_. As soon as he’s on his feet, he turns back, scanning the area desperately to see if Hanzo escaped the blast. His heart leaps into his throat when at first he sees nothing, but then he hears a scuffle and catches sight of Hanzo, dust and dirt smudged on his _gi_ but otherwise unharmed.

“McCree!” shouts the voice before. McCree turns to face the speaker, an older man a few feet away, the obvious source of the grenade. He squints through the bright sun and dust, confused at first, until he recognizes the man as an old, prominent member of the former Deadlocks. “You rat bastard! Awful bold of you to show your face here again!”

McCree chuckles. “You ain’t the first one to tell me that,” he says.

To the side, he sees Hanzo attempt to run forward, only to be stopped by another enemy who shoots out from a passageway in the rock. Hanzo pulls up short, reaching for an arrow, but before McCree can move to help, the man shouts again.

“And you brought friends!” the old leader taunts, pulling a modern pistol from a holster on his thigh. He fires several times in McCree’s direction, missing each one but forcing McCree to roll out of the way again. He reloads as he rolls and comes up firing, two shots that find their mark in the man’s chest. He gives a cry as he falls, clutching the wounds that will bleed out in mere moments. Satisfied, he turns back to Hanzo, gun raised and ready.

The last of the Deadlocks is a woman who has managed to shove her way into Hanzo’s space, forcing him to go on the defensive. Her gun has been knocked away, but she grips a serrated knife in her hand, swiping wildly at Hanzo as he tries to fend her off with his bow as his shield. McCree tries to aim, but the fight moves too quickly, and he risks shooting Hanzo. It’s a slim risk, with his aim, but a risk he is not willing to take.

He runs forward, determined to bodily rip the woman away if he has to, when he hears Hanzo cry out and clutch at his abdomen. McCree can only see a flash of red, but that’s all it takes for the rage to flare to life. He snarls as he pulls up Peacekeeper, and in the split-second when the woman backs away, readying her knife for a killing blow, he shoots her dead-on in the head. Her lifeless body hits the ground, but McCree barely notices.

“Hanzo!” he shouts as he runs over. He gets his hands on Hanzo’s shoulders, bending down to meet his gaze. Hanzo’s hand is clutched to the side of his stomach, blood trickling out from under his palm and staining the soft white of his clothes. “Hanzo, are you alright? How bad did she get you? Mercy, we need--”

“I am alright, Jesse,” Hanzo says. He lifts his head with his smile and takes away his hand, which comes away blood-stained but reveals a deceptively shallow slice in his skin. “She only grazed me.”

McCree bites back a retort but doesn’t let Hanzo go. He casts a quick look around, worried for other enemies using the quiet to sneak up on them, but there is nothing. The area has been cleared, and no one else comes forward to fight. Marginally relieved, McCree sighs heavily and kisses Hanzo’s forehead. “I’m glad you’re alright, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Had me real worried for a second. You keep gettin’ hurt when I’m not lookin’.”

Hanzo chuckles, wincing briefly as the laughter agitates his wound. “I think you may be distracting me,” he replies. “I have to keep you alive as well as myself.”

“You just focus on you.”

With the firefight at its end, Angela makes her appearance, gliding across the road with mechanical wings outstretched. “Oh goodness,” she tuts, leaning in to inspect Hanzo’s injury. "Are you alright?”

“I am fine,” Hanzo repeats, sounding weary.

“Well, I should still get you taken care of as soon as I can. My staff can stop the bleeding, but the rest will need stitches. Let’s get back to the transport so I can patch you up.”

McCree reluctantly releases his hold on Hanzo so that Mercy’s healing beam can do its work. His gaze flickers toward the thin, pale scar on Hanzo’s temple from his previous injury, and something twists in his gut.

 _He’s fine_ , he reminds himself, which does nothing to undo the knot of worry.

\--

 

They return to Gibraltar late that night to a dark and quiet base, the rest of Overwatch having gone to bed hours ago. Winston dismisses them all to bed, graciously allowing them to sleep before their regular mission debrief. McCree expects to go to bed alone, but he’s stopped outside his door by a gentle tug on the sleeve of his shirt.

“May I?” Hanzo asks, his voice soft and shoulders slouched with exhaustion.

McCree is helpless to deny him. “Of course,” he says, turning his hand to take Hanzo’s. “Wouldn’t dream of tellin’ you no.”

“I’m afraid I’m too tired for other . . . activities,” Hanzo adds, but he trails off as McCree shakes his head.

“You don’t need an excuse to stay with me,” he says, tapping the button to open the door and leading the way in. “And I’m dog-tired, so I’m right there with you.” The door shuts behind them automatically, shutting out the light from the hall and leaving them only with a sliver of illumination sneaking through the blinds. Abruptly exhausted, McCree sheds his boots, breastplate, hat, and _serape,_ letting them fall into a pile by the door. He can hear Hanzo shrugging off his bow and quiver and propping them against the wall, and when he turns back, he gets a perfect view of Hanzo as he peels off his dusty _gi_ and drapes it over his gear. Despite being too tired for anything else, he can always appreciate the view.

Hanzo turns back to face him, a tired smile on his face, and McCree’s gaze drops immediately to the rectangular bandage on Hanzo’s belly. McCree knows the stitches underneath are perfect, the wound clean and healing, but he can’t help spike of anxiety that comes.

“Jesse,” Hanzo murmurs, gently touching a hand to the side of McCree’s face. “I am fine. We have discussed this, haven’t we?”

McCree blows out a long sigh. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, we have. Just don’t like seein’ you hurt again.”

“I feel the same for you. But it is what we do. We will survive just as we always have.” Hanzo tilts his head up for a sweet kiss, which McCree leans into gratefully, gathering Hanzo into his arms. The warm skin under his hand reassures him just a little, evidence that Hanzo is alive and well and still with him.

It takes them a couple of minutes to actually get to bed, wrapped up in each other as they are. Eventually they climb under the sheets and Hanzo drapes himself over McCree’s chest as though he was always meant to be there, head pillowed against his shoulder. Hanzo is asleep almost instantly, but McCree stares at the ceiling for an hour, brushing his thumb over the edge of the bandage taped to Hanzo’s abdomen.

A little part of him worries that Hanzo would be safer without him.

 

\--

 

His nightmares return in force.

Usually they’re limited to his memories, sometimes twisted but nonetheless no worse than what he has experienced in his life, but tonight is different. There is no preparing for these, no familiarity in their images.

He dreams first of the New Mexico mission, but instead of shooting Hanzo’s attacker in the head, he misses his shot by a mile. He is forced to watch as the gangster stabs Hanzo in the gut and wrenches the knife across, spilling liters of crimson blood across the dusty desert cliffs. Hanzo collapses and McCree screams for help, but the rest of the team is gone. He can only watch as Hanzo bleeds out on the roadside, eyes accusing, _how could you let me get hurt_ while the familiar faces of old Deadlock members sneer _you did this, you brought him here, you can’t run from us--_

The nightmare shifts, taking him out of Dorado and back to the olden days of Overwatch. He wasn’t present when the Swiss headquarters exploded, but that doesn’t stop his mind from concocting horrific imagery of it nonetheless: the searing flames overtaking the building, spreading faster than any natural fire ought to do; the acrid smell of burning flesh; the screams of the people inside, with the voices of his old commanders louder than all the rest, gone from his life like so many others. Hanzo isn’t in this one but it doesn’t matter, because why would his soulmate stick around when Reyes and Morrison and even Ana couldn’t--  

The nightmares continue, flashes of violent imagery, all reminders of his failure to protect those around him. They all run the same theme: people he couldn’t protect, family he has lost, the soulmate he _will_ lose, whom he’s already seen get hurt twice in the short time they’ve known each other--

“Jesse!” Hanzo says sharply, somewhere where McCree can’t see. He jolts, and Hanzo says his name again. He wakes with a sharp gasp, torn from his fitful sleep. His heart races in his chest, thudding against his sternum. A cold sweat coats his skin, soaking his t-shirt. Above him, a worried Hanzo stares down at him, eyes wide.

“You were having a nightmare,” Hanzo says, splaying his hand over Jesse’s chest. “It sounded particularly bad. Are you alright?”

McCree tries to answer, but all that comes out is a wheeze. Despite waking, his heart refuses to slow, and his stomach is clenching and roiling with nausea. Panic tightens around his chest like a vice; he is just cognizant enough to recognize the beginnings of a full-blown panic attack.

He stumbles out of bed and throws open the window, shoving his head out into the cool night. It does nothing to stem his panic, but the cold air on his skin provides just a little bit of grounding. He grips the sill with trembling hands and gulps down air, willing the rest of his body to still.

“Jesse?” Hanzo murmurs behind him, rustling as he climbs out of bed. A hand touches the back of his shoulder, and McCree yanks away.

“I-I can’t--” Jesse tries, then shakes his head. “Fuck, I can’t--you--”

“It is alright,” Hanzo soothes. “It was only a dream. You are safe.”

“It ain’t fuckin’ alright, you almost--you coulda died today--you-you keep gettin’--” McCree is shaking too hard for a coherent thought. He scrambles at his bedside table for his lighter and cigarillos, but can’t hold still long enough to put them together and ultimately drops the lighter on the floor. Disgusted and frustrated, he throws the cigarillos back on the table. In the process, he catches sight of his red string, and the sight of it douses him with a fresh wave of terror.

His soulmate keeps getting hurt. Eventually, he’s going to die before his time, just like everyone else, and McCree will be left alone. Again.

“This--this was a mistake,” he says.

“What was a mistake?” Hanzo steps in close, reaching over to rest a hand on McCree’s where it grips the windowsill, white-knuckled.

“This. Us. I can’t--” McCree screws his eyes shut and clenches his jaw, sucking in a breath through his teeth. “You keep gettin’ hurt and damn near everyone I let get close fucking dies, Hanzo, I can’t let--”

“That is ridiculous,” Hanzo says, hand tightening over his. “You cannot think this a mistake simply because of the nature of our work.”

“Really? I can’t?” McCree knows he’s raising his voice, becoming hysterical, but he can’t stop. He rounds on Hanzo, panic getting confused for anger in a vicious, twisting knot in his chest. “Fucking everyone ends up gettin’ killed and I can’t do a thing about it! Reyes was like a fuckin’ dad to me, and he and his mate got blown up in Switzerland! Ana disappeared off the face of the goddamn earth, never found her body--never mind anyone else I liked in this damn pit! And none of _them_ were my fucking soulmate!”

Hanzo’s expression turns stony. “So you wish that we had not become this?” he asks, gesturing between them with one hand. “Because you are _afraid?_ Is that not what you scorned me for doing?”

“It ain’t the same damn thing. I’m worried about you _dyin’--_ ”

“You are worried about _being hurt._ Much as I was. But I am here, at your convincing.”

“And I said it was a mistake!”

“You are being unreasonable, this is not--”

“Shut up!” McCree shouts. “Just--just get out, Hanzo. I’m sorry. I fucked up. We can’t do this.”

“Jesse--”

“I’m sorry I led you on or what-the-fuck-ever it is you want from me, I messed this up, whatever, just get out!”

He turns away, dropping his head into his hands, fingernails digging into his skin as he fights to get himself under control. For a long moment, nothing happens. Hanzo slowly backs away, and only makes the faintest of shuffling noises as he pulls on his shirt and picks up his equipment. The door hisses softly on its tracks as it opens and shuts.

McCree’s stomach gives another heave. He throws himself at the wastebasket by his table, dry-heaving over it. When he finally finishes, feeling empty and gutted despite producing nothing, he slouches back against the wall under the freezing window. Slowly, his heart begins to slow, the panic and fear receding as it does.

He already recognizes his actual mistake. Shame runs cold in his gut, adding to the nausea that is already present. Christ, he shouldn’t have shouted at Hanzo. It’s mere days into their tenuous relationship and already he’s gone and ruined it with his own panicked reactions.

He reaches for his cigarillos again and shakily lights up. He takes a deep drag and blows the smoke out on a ragged exhale, rubbing his hand down his face. A tiny part of him hopes to see the door open again, Hanzo returning to forgive him for his outburst.

An hour passes, and McCree remains alone.

  


 


	7. Chapter 7

Hanzo wakes the next morning from the worst sleep he has had in years. He spends most of the night drifting in and out of a fitful doze, alternating with a consciousness wracked with anger and guilt, until he finally gives up somewhere after 10 AM. He hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, between the late-night return from Dorado and the time spent awake because of McCree, but he’s tired of trying.

Besides, it only took two nights to become too accustomed to another body in his bed, and the cold expanse of mattress behind him only serves to make him more irritable.

He spends a few minutes lying in bed, glaring at the wall across the way as though it is responsible for his mood. He feels slightly ill from a combination of sleep deprivation and the previous night’s events.

He trusted McCree. He dared to trust him enough to give in to his wants, to throw himself into their soulmate status for everything that it was worth, and it took only days to be burned. For all his fear that McCree would not want him as a soulmate, he had tried, only to be told that he was right all along.

Hanzo growls and throws back the covers. If he is going to be awake instead of recovering, he might as well make use of the time.

He dresses in his regular work-out clothes, ties back his hair with one of his plainer sashes, and strides out of the dorms. His comm and phone are deliberately left behind on the bedside table. The moment his feet hit the dirt outside, he breaks into a sprint: too fast for his typical morning run, but he feels too wound-up to limit himself. He will push himself to his breaking point and beyond if it means just getting a little further away from McCree and the suffocating confines of the base.

He follows the road through the base and out, into the cliffs surrounding the Watchpoint. Wary of going too far and finding himself in the city, he breaks away from the road and crunches across gravelly side paths and patches of sparse grass. When his muscles burn and his lungs cry for air, he reduces his pace to a jog but still does not stop, letting his legs carry him far away from the center of his fear and anger. Running from his problems, both figuratively and literally, just as he has always done.

The hot Gibraltar sun shines overhead, its rays cutting through the cool mist of the sea that constantly permeates the air. The pounding of the ground under Hanzo’s feet sets a steady beat, counterpoint to the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck and shoulders, following the valley of his spine uncomfortably but grounding him to anything but his thoughts.

It isn’t enough, though. Not even pushing himself to his very limit could keep him distracted for long.

McCree’s voice echoes in his memory: _this was a mistake_. Logically, Hanzo knows that this was not directed at him, but at McCree himself. Still, the knowledge doesn’t stop the words from cutting him to the quick, nor does it soothe the old, familiar self-hatred that always lurks below the surface. How could McCree be so quick to dismiss what he had pushed to start?

 _Because he was not thinking_ , Hanzo thinks guiltily. He knows the effects nightmares can have, the sheer panic that they can bring even after waking. McCree has never shown himself to be an anxious man, but that does not mean that he does not occasionally succumb. The things he said most likely came from a place of panic, not of hatred or genuine regret: fight-or-flight instincts all jumbled up and pointed in the wrong direction, a self-defense mechanism. Remove oneself from the situation before it could bring on more harm.

At least, Hanzo hopes that was what had happened.

Hanzo finally comes to a stop. He does not know where he is precisely, only the path that took him here, leading him to a sunny spot on the cliffs. He sits down by the cliffside to catch his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his shirt, and peers out across the glittering ocean. Aside from the seagulls overhead, crying and squawking at each other for reasons one can only guess, Hanzo is alone.

He is forced to acknowledge, as he sits and breathes in the salt of the ocean with no company but the birds, that he may have been mistaken in walking away. McCree was terrified of him leaving, and yet Hanzo had done just that. Now McCree is, in all likelihood, just as alone as he is, enduring his fears with no one to help him through.

Even as he thinks this, though, he wonders if perhaps this is the best course of action. Break it now before they hurt each other even more. They would both be safe from this heartbreak if they stopped now. Perhaps McCree is not even upset any longer--perhaps he is relieved that Hanzo is gone. No more worrying about Hanzo, no more caring for someone whose history was fraught with dark choices.

Hanzo looks at his string and thinks of the man back at the Watchpoint who was so brutally honest and sincere from day one, who fretted over his smallest wounds and smiled at him just for existing, who treated Hanzo like the only thing in the world that mattered.

If he has to let go of that, he will regret it more than if he stays and weathers the storm. Besides, Hanzo Shimada has never been a man to do things by halves.

So he gets back to his feet, shakes the exhaustion from his limbs, and begins the long run back to the base.

When he gets back, he drags himself through the shower and into a fresh set of clothes. He already regrets exerting himself so thoroughly after such a poor night of sleep, but he resists the urge to crawl back into bed and instead makes his way into the kitchen.

Breakfast has been long over, but some of the more thoughtful members of the team have been known to put away the leftovers for their late-waking compatriots, and today is no exception. A cursory inspection of the fridge reveals a wrapped tray with several fried eggs, slices of bacon, and sweet bread buns--most likely Lucio’s doing. He divides the food between two plates, sticks it in the microwave, and sets about brewing both a cup of green tea and a cup of coffee. The tea is drunk alongside his portion of the breakfast; the coffee gets two spoons of sugar and is arranged on a plastic tray with the second plate, which he then carries off to the dorms.

He hopes that he will run into McCree on his way, but he has no such luck. He stops outside of McCree’s bedroom door and leans his shoulder against the wall, the tray balanced on his other hand. “McCree?” he calls, rapping his knuckles sharply against the door. He receives no response, and frowns. McCree could be asleep, but . . .

He glances down at his thread and watches as it moves from right to left: across the room and toward the bed. He sighs and knocks again. “Jesse, I know you’re awake,” he says. “I brought something to eat, and I was hoping we could talk.”

There is still no answer. When he strains his ears, he can just hear a dull thump, like someone dropping themselves heavily into the bed. He is being deliberately ignored.

“Jesse!” he says, agitation beginning to win out over his worry. “At least say something! You cannot ignore me the entire day.”

No response is forthcoming, although he can perfectly imagine McCree saying _watch me_ and then ignoring him for a week out of spite.

“Fine,” he growls, kneeling and setting the tray on the floor. He is reminded of some weeks past, when he woke to a similar gesture from McCree, and feels a pang of sadness under the frustration. “Ignore me if you wish. There is breakfast for you here, if you ever feel like acting like an adult.” He manfully resists the urge to childishly kick something--maybe the tray--and strides off to his own room. He wishes the doors were not automatic so that he could slam his shut behind him, and only realizes after a few seconds of standing alone in his room that he is probably being just as immature as McCree.

As quickly as it came, his frustration dissipates, and he is left feeling empty and tired. His sleep deprivation catches up with him almost immediately, and he gives up and falls back into bed, tucking himself close to the wall to blot out the late-morning sun. He curls up facing the wall with his back to the empty space behind so that he does not have to acknowledge that he is alone.

 

\--

 

Hanzo’s impromptu nap leaves him feeling more disoriented than before and only a bit more rested, not to mention agitated that he wasted most of his day sleeping and pining. Determined to make something of his day, he sits with his tablet and types out his mission report for Dorado. Doing so only serves to agitate him further as he describes the minor injury he sustained, which reminds him of McCree all over again, and he ends up in nearly as bad a mood as that morning.

He whittles away a couple more hours meditating and wrapping up various bureaucratic tasks for Winston’s reports, until he finally runs out of things to do in his room somewhere around five o’ clock. Resigned, he makes his way to the kitchen instead. Tonight is one of the rare nights that the team gathers for dinner together, and if he is going to be expected to socialize, he needs an hour alone first with a cup of green tea and his own thoughts.

When he pads into the kitchen, Genji is already there, standing in front of the stove with a pair of chopsticks in hand. A large covered pot sits on the corner burner while Genji fusses over a pan in front of him. He lifts his head from his cooking when he hears Hanzo enter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cook,” Hanzo remarks as he passes.

“That doesn’t mean I can’t do it. I’ve learned to do a lot of things in the last few years,” Genji replies amiably. “Besides, it’s my turn to cook for everyone.”

Hanzo peers over his shoulder to look at the pan, which is filled with strips of sizzling beef. “What are you making?”

“Just curry rice. It’s easy enough to make and I can make a lot of it.”

“Can I help?”

Genji nods toward a cutting board on the counter beside him, stacked with potatoes, onions, and carrots.  “I haven’t done the vegetables yet, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Glad to have something to do with his hands, Hanzo fetches a knife and sets to work. They lapse into an easy silence for a minute as he peels the carrots and Genji pokes at the rice simmering in the pot.

“Something troubles you,” Genji says, placing the lid back over the rice.

Hanzo does not answer, focusing on chopping the carrots into even disks. Admitting something as mundane as _relationship troubles_ to his younger brother feels too petty--and, Hanzo admits to himself, Genji’s apparent ease with his own soulmate feels unfair.

Genji stretches up to the cabinet above the stove, pulling down several spice canisters and a container of flour. “I assume it’s something to do with McCree,” he continues mildly. “I haven’t seen him all day.” He tosses salt and pepper over the beef with a liberal hand, then gestures for Hanzo to dump in the carrots he has finished. “He didn’t even answer me when I asked what he wanted for dinner. He never skips meals when I cook.”  


Hanzo continues to stay silent as he works, switching to the potatoes.

Genji sighs softly. “You can talk to me,” he says, deliberately looking at Hanzo now. “I know you are upset. You’ve slept terribly, and you wouldn’t even have offered to help me otherwise. You would’ve made me cook alone because of discipline or something.” He smiles halfheartedly.

Hanzo rests the knife against the cutting board, grip tightening around the handle. He hesitates for a long moment, then picks up the knife and continues dicing the potatoes with quick, efficient strokes. “I was injured on our mission,” he says. “Not badly, but enough. McCree reacted . . . poorly last night.”

“How so?”

“It is a long story. But he told me that our relationship was a mistake. That he was afraid that I would be hurt, so we should not have started.” Hanzo halves another potato with more force than necessary, thunking the blade of the knife into the cutting board. “He told me to leave and has refused to speak to me since last night.”

“Wait, relationship? So you’ve actually--?”

“Yes. Although since it was a _mistake_ , it does not seem that it was much of one at all.” Hanzo catches himself glaring down at the potatoes. He sighs heavily, finishes dicing the one on the board, and swipes the lot into the pan. “He spent so much time convincing me to try, then turned around and fled himself. And now he is being a _child_ , refusing to so much as acknowledge me--”

He catches himself raising his voice, stops, and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but I have spent all of today thinking about it. I don’t want to talk about it any further.”

“Fair enough.” Genji does not seem satisfied, but he lets the subject drop.

Hanzo finishes his assigned task of cutting vegetables. Genji goes about making a roux in another pot, whisks in water, and dumps the entire thing into the pan with the beef and vegetables.

“I haven’t gotten to ask,” Genji starts, watching the curry intently as it rises to a boil, “but how are you doing? Not with that, but just in general. Since joining Overwatch.”

Hanzo busies himself with washing the few dishes they have already gone through. He thinks for a moment before he answers. “Fine, I think. It is not without its problems, but they seem to have accepted me. I do well enough on assignments.”

“That’s good, but that isn’t what I meant.”

Hanzo considers the suds on the cutting board. “I am well,” he says. “I have grown to enjoy it here.”

“Good. I was worried for awhile.”

“Were you.”

“Of course.” Genji says it without hesitation or embarrassment. “I wanted you to learn to forgive yourself and find a new purpose, just as I did. That is why I brought you here. I’m glad to see that you are on your way.”

Hanzo finds he has no response to this, but it does spark another memory. “That reminds me,” he says, turning back to his brother with a raised eyebrow. “You left during that meditation. You planned to the entire time, didn’t you?”

Genji has the grace to look a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, I did. I originally wanted to stay, but I thought it might get too personal. Plus, I thought it would be best if you could speak with Zenyatta alone, just once, and you wouldn’t have done it if I just suggested it outright.”

“Did you not think that there might be a reason for that?”

“Oh, I did, but I figured it was just because you’re just too stubborn for your own good.” Genji laughs as Hanzo turns and flicks a handful of soapy water at him. “Oh, come on! You know that’s why. Admit it, he helped you at least a little, didn’t he?”

Hanzo pretends to be invested in the cleanliness of the knife in his hand. “He did,” he admits.

“I’m certain he would be willing to speak with you more, if you ever wanted to.”

“Perhaps sometime.”

“He helped me come to terms with who I am. I know he could do the same for you, if you let him.” Genji pauses before he adds, “But even so, you seem happier. I am glad. McCree has been good for you, I think, as well as the rest of the team.”

Hanzo finishes the few dishes in the sink and dries his hands on a towel. When he turns back, Genji is smiling softly as he stirs the curry in the pan. The savory scents of beef and spice rise on the steam, filling the kitchen with a tantalizing, cozy warmth. The entire scene is so strangely domestic that Hanzo almost has a hard time believing that he’s standing here, making dinner with his brother as though their pasts never happened at all.

Hanzo clears his throat, and Genji looks up, a look of polite questioning on his face. “I realized,” Hanzo begins, addressing the dish towel, “that I never apologized for what I did. I have spent a long time attempting to atone for my mistakes, and even though it was not nearly enough, you still have showed me more grace than I deserve.”

Hanzo takes a deep breath and forces him to meet Genji’s gaze. “I am sorry,” he says. “For what I did, and for how I have acted. An apology is nowhere near enough, but I--”

Genji interrupts him by throwing his arms around Hanzo in a tight embrace. Hanzo freezes, surprised by the sudden display of affection, dish towel still clutched in one hand. Unperturbed, Genji just tightens his hold, fingers gripping tight to the back of Hanzo’s shirt.

“You are already forgiven, _niisan_ ,” Genji murmurs, voice thick with emotion.

A lump forms inexplicably in Hanzo’s throat. He swallows hard and slowly, haltingly, hugs Genji back.

The rice ends up burning on the bottom of the pan, forgotten for more important things.

 

\--

 

Hanzo tries once more before bed to get McCree’s attention, to no avail. The tray of food disappeared at some point during the day, but whether that means McCree actually left his room or just hid himself away with the food like a squirrel, Hanzo cannot say. Defeated, he instead accepts an invitation with Genji for another medication session with Zenyatta--much calmer this time, a welcome reprieve from the storm of his own thoughts--and goes to bed.

The next morning is a training day for the entire team. Hanzo does not see McCree on his way to the simulations arena, and the direction of his thread indicates the man is still hiding, but his hopes are high that he will see McCree in training.

His hopes are dashed when Winston announces that it is time to begin the simulations, but McCree is still nowhere to be found. “Wait,” he says, “where is McCree? Should we not wait for him?”

“Jesse is sick,” Angela replies. An odd look flickers over her face. “Did you not know that?”

Hanzo can feel multiple pairs of eyes turn in his direction. “I did not,” he says stiffly.

“Ah. Yes, well, he came to me earlier and I gave him permission to skip today’s session. He should be well enough tomorrow.”

Hanzo frowns. Something does not sit quite right, although he cannot pinpoint precisely what it is. He suspects she is lying, but there is no way to be certain--and though she would never admit it aloud, her loyalties lie just a little stronger with her childhood friend than they do the newcomer.

Winston breaks them into groups of three and sends them off into the arena against each other, one team against another to capture fictional objectives. Hanzo’s arrows are swapped out for rubber-capped versions to avoid genuinely hurting anyone, and he is paired off with Genji and Mei. They fight against a team comprised of Reinhardt, Lucio, and Angela, and take their point almost immediately. Hanzo stands up on a rooftop to act as sentry, an arrow drawn, but he knows his performance suffers.

“ _Brother, are you alright?”_ Genji asks. Hanzo glances about, but cannot see the cyborg anywhere. “ _You seem distracted_.”

“My apologies,” Hanzo says. He catches a glimpse of movement and fires an arrow in its direction, but his arrow bounces off a wall.

“ _McCree again?”_ Hanzo hums noncommittally in response, and Genji makes a sympathetic noise. “ _He’ll come around. He’s not so cruel as to leave you hanging forever.”_

“ _Is everything okay--”_ Mei’s voice is briefly cut off, followed by the sound of her blaster. “ _Oops, sorry, think Reinhardt was trying to sneak around that way but he’s so loud. Is everything okay, Hanzo?”_

“Must everyone pry?”

“ _You haven’t hit a single thing since we began,”_ Genji points out. “ _I spent a long time bragging about your abilities, so you should start doing better or I will look like a fool.”_

 _“We are_ worried _about you_ ,” Mei corrects, which draws a chuckle from Genji. “ _And about McCree. Are you two okay?”_

Hanzo sighs deeply and double-checks that their comm is on a private channel for their team. “I do not know,” he answers. “He has not spoken to me since the night before last. We had an . . . argument. Sort of.”

“ _Oh, that’s a shame,_ ” Mei murmurs. _“I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m sure you’ll get through it. Even Zarya and I had an argument and we got over it._ ”

Hanzo fires off another arrow as he sees Lucio skate between covers. He allows himself a little burst of satisfaction when the arrow clips Lucio’s shoulder and makes him yelp. “Did you? That is hard to imagine.”

“ _Yeah, she--Lucio, I see you!_ ” Hanzo watches Lucio immediately reverse direction from the point as he’s chased by Mei’s freezing blast, although that distracts Mei from the oncoming force of both Reinhardt and Angela behind her. Hanzo fires several arrows, which skip off Reinhardt’s armor but do land solidly in Angela’s side. Overhead, Athena announces Angela’s death, and Reinhardt rapidly backs away from the point.

“ _Phew,”_ Mei says, shaking her head. “ _Anyway, yeah. The other day she said something kind of mean about Snowball and I got upset. She has a thing about omnics. I mean, I get why, she practically grew up on top of the first crisis, but still!”_

 _“Ah, yes, I remember,”_ Genji says dryly.

“ _But we got over it, and I even got her to kind of like Snowball. That’s kind of what you have to do with soulmates, isn’t it? It’ll probably come up again, but we’re supposed to be together. We’ll get through it. And so will you, if you fight for it.”_

Athena announces the end of the drill and declares their team the winners. Cheers go up over his comm from Genji and Mei both, but Hanzo barely hears them. As he descends from his perch on the roof, he makes his decision.

 

\--

 

The moment they are dismissed, Hanzo makes a beeline for his quarters. “Athena,” he says as he sets aside his gear, “will you please download a map of the Watchpoint to my tablet?”

“Certainly, Agent Hanzo,” Athena replies. Hanzo swipes his tablet off the desk and taps open the map, swiping through the three-story building that comprises the dorms. He knows the basic layout of the building, and McCree’s room is only twenty feet down from his, but he wants to be certain. Satisfied, he abandons the tablet again and makes his way out of his room and toward McCree’s.

He isn’t surprised this time when he still doesn’t receive an answer, despite repeated attempts at knocking and calling for McCree. The door is locked tight, which is also not a surprise, and Athena refuses--rightly so, though it is no less annoying--to unlock another agent’s door for anything less than an emergency.

With an agitated sigh, Hanzo makes his way back out of the agent dorms. Outside, the sun begins its descent toward the horizon as the day makes its gradual transition from afternoon to evening. The warmth of the day just barely begins to take on a cooler edge, hinting at the chill to come that night. Hanzo estimates it has been nearly 40 hours since he last saw McCree--a perfectly tolerable amount of time under normal circumstances, but frustratingly unbearable as things stand now.

Hanzo quickly rounds the side of the building, taking a quick look around as he goes to make sure he is alone. He peers upward at the line of square windows and runs through the map in his head as he walks along the side of the building. The third one from the back of the building leads to McCree’s bedroom, with Lucio and Reinhardt on either side. The window is halfway open, which makes the task all the easier. He gives himself a couple feet of running start and leaps, easily grabbing hold of a thin ledge running the length of the wall and finding his balance with the grips of his boots. From there, he effortlessly scales the rest of the distance to the window, ultimately stopping some twenty feet above the ground.

He shoves the window the rest of the way open before swinging his legs over the sill, and comes face-to-face with the barrel of McCree’s pistol.

“Jesus Christ, Hanzo!” McCree shouts, lowering his gun. “The fuck are you doin’?”

“You were ignoring me,” Hanzo states plainly. He gets his feet on the floor and stands, dusting himself off nonchalantly. “I grew tired of it.”

“So you chose to climb through my window?”

“It was the only remaining option.” Hanzo casts a glance about the room. The air smells of stale tobacco smoke, and several dishes litter the table and desk--including the plastic tray Hanzo had brought the previous morning. McCree has clearly left the room at least a couple of times, though not for long enough for anyone to catch him.

McCree himself is recently washed and fully dressed, _serape_ and hat included, as though ready to venture out. Hanzo narrows his eyes. “Doctor Ziegler told me you were ill,” he says. “I see that was another excuse to avoid me.”

“I wasn’t--” McCree starts, before exhaling sharply. He sets his gun on the bedside table. “Fine. Yeah, I was.”

Before Hanzo can retort, McCree sweeps off his hat and runs his hand through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry,” he sighs. “You’re right, I was avoidin’ you, and I know it was a shit thing to do, but I needed to think about what I was gonna do. I was actually on my way to find you when you decided to ninja your way through my window.”

Hanzo tamps down on the anger he can already feel trying to rise to the surface. He did not come here to be mocked. “Alright,” he says. “And what are you going to do?”

All the fight seems to drain out of McCree at once. He sinks onto his bed wearily, hat held in limp fingers between his knees. For a long moment he says nothing at all. Hanzo stands in front of him, arms crossed, silently awaiting his answer while his heart beats a nervous rhythm against his ribs.

“I’m sorry,” McCree finally says. “Not just for--I mean, yeah, for putting you off, but also for the other night. I shouldn’t’ve said that shit. Jesus, I shouldn’t have said that.” He ruffles his hair again, his other hand clenching his hat tight. “I wasn’t thinkin’ straight. I never wanted you to go. I definitely never should have told you it was a mistake.”

Relief washes over Hanzo in a wave so strong that his knees feel weak. “No?”

“No, of course not. Never. I feel like a right bastard, sayin’ that to you, but I was scared and didn’t have my head on right and--” He cuts himself off with a sharp jerk of his head and looks up at Hanzo, eyes beseeching. “No, no excuses. I’m real sorry, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Hanzo unfolds his arms, and McCree recognizes the invitation for what it is, leaning forward until he can wrap his arms around Hanzo’s middle and bury his face in Hanzo’s stomach. Hanzo combs a hand through McCree’s hair, his other hand flat against McCree’s back to keep him close. “You are forgiven,” he murmurs. “And I apologize as well.”

“What, for not puttin’ up with my shit?” McCree gives a self-deprecating laugh before nosing deeper into the folds of Hanzo’s shirt. His fingers tighten their grip, as though Hanzo might run away now.

“In a sense. I am sorry for leaving.”

“I yelled at you to go. I don’t exactly blame ya.”

“That is true, and you should not have said it, but I still should not have gone. I should have recognized what was happening sooner and been strong enough to stay with you through it. If you are so afraid of me leaving, I should not have added fuel to the fire by doing just that.”

“Oh, don’t beat yourself up over that. Not like you knew I was gonna have some sorta mental breakdown over you gettin’ scratched.” McCree tilts his head up to meet Hanzo’s gaze, a tentative half-smile on his lips. “You don’t deserve gettin’ yelled at for something that ain’t your fault.

“No. But nonetheless.” Hanzo smooths McCree’s bangs away from his face, smiling gently. “You have seen a lot of loss and you are afraid. I do not fault you for that.” He worries the inside of his lip for a moment before continuing, “Do you recall the conversation we had shortly after I first came here? You told me that soulmates are not what we want, but what we need.”

“No offense, sweetheart, but I probably remember that one better than you.”

Hanzo laughs quietly. “That is true,” he admits ruefully. “But at the time, you told me you did not know what you needed from me. I think I may have figured it out.”

“Is that so?” McCree’s expression is caught somewhere between amusement and apprehension. He sits back to look at Hanzo better, his hands resting on Hanzo’s hips. “Lay it on me, then.”

“Stability. Balance. Someone in your life who will not leave. You may pride yourself on being something of a wandering spirit, but you fear the death or the loss of the people you allow close to you. You have spent a long time either alone or around people who do not truly care for you, but you are not meant to live that way.”

McCree’s smile slowly fades as Hanzo speaks. His hands flex on Hanzo’s hips. Hanzo takes a deep breath and finishes, “But I would like to be this for you. If you will allow me.”

McCree stares up at him for a long moment, eyes wide. Then he stands wordless, grips Hanzo’s face in both hands, and pulls him up into a clumsy kiss. Hanzo lets himself be dragged up, kissing back with as much grace as he can muster under the graceless, enthusiastic movements of McCree’s mouth.

When McCree breaks away, it is only by an inch. He grins breathlessly down at Hanzo, resting his forehead against Hanzo’s. “Hell, darlin’,” he murmurs. “Don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“Nothing, I suspect,” Hanzo replies. Deliberately, he lifts his left hand to grip McCree’s wrist. The red string hangs slack between them, a thin line of vivid, reassuring color.

McCree looks at the thread for a long moment, then back at Hanzo. “Listen,” he says, “let’s go out tonight. Let me make it up to you for bein’ such an ass.”

“You don’t have to do any such thing.”

“Nah, but I want to. Besides, we went about this whole thing a bit backwards. I never got to wine and dine ya like I planned. Bit like closin’ the barn door after the horse has already bolted, but that don’t mean I can’t do it now anyway.” He nudges his nose against Hanzo’s. “C’mon. Out tonight, then we spend all of tomorrow in bed like I promised, and I’ll spoil you the whole time.”  


It takes Hanzo a second to parse McCree’s simile, but he gets the gist of it nonetheless. With an exaggerated sigh of exasperation, he nods. “Alright,” he agrees. “We’ll see how good you are at ‘wining and dining.’”

“I’ll surprise ya,” McCree says through his grin. He bends down for a quick peck and then pushes Hanzo toward the door. “Go get ready, sweetheart. Leave in half an hour.”

 

\--

 

Hanzo himself found himself agonizing for far too long in the half-hour interim. He does not own a lot of clothing--the leftover habit of too many years on the run--and his _kyudo-gis_ are hardly appropriate for a night out. But he has accumulated a couple of shirts, if only for undercover purposes. Eventually he settles on a pair of dark jeans and, conscientious of his tattoo, a long-sleeve t-shirt, then runs himself through the shower before he can overthink his wardrobe choices even further.

True to his word, McCree takes his role as Hanzo’s date very seriously. He shows up at Hanzo’s door precisely thirty minutes later, dressed in a tight black t-shirt under an open flannel, sleeves rolled up over the thickest part of his forearms. He has foregone the _serape_ , but his hat and spurs are still present. Hanzo finds this oddly comforting, despite the ridiculousness. Plus, Hanzo’s over-deliberation of his clothes seems to do the trick, if the lingering glances McCree keeps shooting below eye-level are any indication.

McCree checks out a car from the sparsely-populated Overwatch garage and they speed off into Gibraltar proper. Evening settles over the tiny city as they drive, the sun creeping toward the horizon and casting golden sunshine over both the glittering sea and the bustling streets. McCree keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they go, pointing out landmarks and telling stories of his days in Overwatch past. Hanzo is happy just to listen as he looks out the window, feeling light with simple contentment.

Their first stop is a bar that McCree swears by, claiming they make the best old-fashioned he’s ever tasted. The bartender recognizes McCree almost immediately and greets him brightly. The two lapse into a conversation of rapid Spanish, with McCree gesturing between himself and Hanzo several times before finally ordering their drinks. Though they speak the same language--regional dialects aside--their accents are sharply different: the soft, romantic lilt of the bartender’s local Spanish almost jarring against the rumbling timber of McCree’s voice and his Mexican-American accent. Hanzo sips a dark local beer as he listens, savoring the nutty taste and the pleasing rumble of McCree’s voice.

McCree must notice the appreciation on his face, because he spends the next hour and two drinks peppering their conversation with bits of Spanish. Hanzo asks questions about his home and family in Santa Fe just to hear more, although he can count on one hand the words he understands. McCree pushes him to answer questions about Hanamura in a not-so-subtle effort to get him to speak in Japanese, which he obliges just to watch the way McCree’s eyes widen just a fraction every time.

When they finally get ready to leave, McCree leads the way outside, hand entwined with Hanzo’s. Instead of walking back out onto the main path, however, he tugs Hanzo around the side of the bar, ducking into the narrow alleyway.

“Where are we going?” Hanzo asks, more amused than suspicious.

“Not far,” McCree replies. Once out of view of the road, he turns and pushes into Hanzo’s space, backing him up against the brick wall. He grins as he dips down for a kiss, which Hanzo readily returns, looping his arms around McCree’s neck. A surprised but pleased hum leaves McCree’s throat when Hanzo deepens the kiss, greedily licking the tastes of smoky bourbon and strong bitters from his mouth.

“Sorry,” McCree breathes a minute later, pausing again to steal one more quick kiss. “You were drivin’ me mad. Couldn’t wait.”

“I was not doing anything.”

“Didn’t have to. You looked good just sittin’ there, and this damn shirt ain’t helpin’.” He plucks at the close-fit cotton at Hanzo’s waist. “Swear someone above put you on this earth just to drive me crazy.”

Hanzo swats him lightly on the chest, and McCree laughs and steps back. “Don’t sass me,” he says. “I know you love bein’ flattered. Now c’mon, there’s a whole lotta city to see before it gets dark.” He takes Hanzo by the hand again, but pauses as though gauging his reaction.

Hanzo just smiles as he threads his fingers with McCree’s. “Lead the way.”

The next hour and a half is spent wandering the densely-packed streets of Gibraltar, filled up and down with tourist traps and local wonders alike. The city is a mash of British and Spanish cultures wrapped up in modern trappings, bright and festive in the way that only a port city can be. McCree leads the way through the local markets, switching easily between English and Spanish as he talks to vendors and points out everything he sees to Hanzo. Near the end, they switch tracks and make their way down to the beach, where the sun is nearly past the horizon and the ocean’s chill washes over the sands. The beach is quieter, and McCree takes the opportunity to drape his arms around Hanzo’s shoulders and pull him close. It’s disgustingly romantic in a way reminiscent of Hollywood, but Hanzo can’t bring himself to be upset.

By the time they finally make the drive back to Gibraltar, night has fallen properly. McCree stops Hanzo as he starts to climb out of the car, two fingers on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Stay with me tonight?” he asks, looking uncertain for the first time that night. “I know it didn’t go so well last time, but . . .”

Hanzo smirks. “I thought that was a given,” he says airily. He catches a glimpse of McCree’s expression as he steps out of the car--a little wide-eyed, definitely aroused and eager.

McCree crowds into Hanzo’s space as they walk--perhaps a bit more hurried than usual--from the garage to the dorms. McCree’s room is just slightly closer than Hanzo’s, so McCree guides them hurriedly through his door instead. The moment they are through, he all but tackles Hanzo to the bed, laughing as he does. They hit the bed in a tangle of limbs, Hanzo all but wrapped-up and buried under McCree, laughing between smeared attempts at kisses.

“You are a grown man,” Hanzo says, pushing at McCree’s shoulder halfheartedly. “Surely you are not that impatient.”

“‘Course I’m impatient. Who wouldn’t be impatient to get with an angel like you?” McCree sits up to shrug off his flannel and peel off the t-shirt underneath. He tosses the garments to the floor, lost amidst several other articles of discarded clothing, and resumes his position lying over Hanzo. He props himself up with elbows on either side of Hanzo’s head to look down at him. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, honestly.”

“I am certain you will.”

“Nonsense.” McCree presses a soft kiss to the ridge of Hanzo’s eyebrow, then the corner of his eye, then the edge of his cheekbone. The gestures are such a sudden departure from his earlier eagerness that Hanzo is left feeling a little dazed. Hanzo allows the kisses as they make a trail down his face, and slides his hands into McCree’s hair to hold him in place for a long minute once their mouths meet again. His heart feels full to bursting, happiness swelling warm and bright in his chest. It’s such an unfamiliar feeling that he can feel the old anxiety try to make an appearance, alarmed by just how easy and right everything feels--only to get drowned out immediately.

McCree lets Hanzo up just long enough to pull off his shirt, hindering more than helping and getting distracted as soon as the shirt is off. Hanzo lets himself be pushed back onto the unmade bed, limbs slipping on the crumpled blanket. McCree’s body rests warm and heavy over his, their mouths never separating as he pins Hanzo to the mattress and cradles his face in his hands. His hips twitch with an aborted thrust, letting Hanzo feel the telltale swell in his jeans.

Hanzo, however, has other plans. He plants one foot on the bed and twists. McCree gives a surprised yelp as he’s abruptly flipped over, Hanzo straddling his hips.

“Allow me,” he says. “You talk too much of spoiling me. I’d like to return the favor.”

McCree almost manages to look put-out. “That wasn’t part of the plan,” he says.

“Not of your plan, perhaps.” Hanzo slides his hands across McCree’s chest and up his arms, pinning his wrists to the bed as he leans down and kisses his jaw. “But I have my own plans.”

“Do you.”

“Mm.” Hanzo grazes his lips along the shell of McCree’s ear, making the man beneath him exhale on a shudder. “You have always been . . . “ He pauses, struggling to find the word. “Thoughtful. Moreso than I. I want to return that thoughtfulness.”

McCree starts to shake his head. “You don’t gotta do anythin’ like that,” he says. “This ain’t about--”

Hanzo interrupts by reaching down between them, pushing his fingers through the trail of hair on McCree’s stomach and gripping the front of McCree’s jeans. McCree cuts off with a startled gasp.

“Are you complaining?” Hanzo asks mildly.

“Nope. No sirree. Please keep going with whatever your little heart desires.”

“Good.” Satisfied that there will be no further argument, Hanzo kisses his way down McCree’s bare chest, brushing teasing fingertips over the lines of his chest and following the softer curve of his belly. When he reaches McCree’s belt, he wastes no time flicking it open and pulling it free, lifting him up with one hand under his thigh to pull it out from underneath. Another flick undoes the button, followed by the zipper, and when McCree looks down at Hanzo hovering over his groin, he makes an agonized noise.

“Sweetheart, you really are gonna be the death of me,” he sighs, dropping his head back on the pillow. “So damn pretty it ain’t fair.”

Hanzo chuckles as he noses against the tented boxers, sliding his hands up to tug  the undergarments down with the tips of his fingers. “You haven’t seen anything yet, cowboy,” he says, and he swears he hears McCree whine.

It has been an embarrassingly long time since Hanzo has done this, but the principles are still the same: teasing licks, hard suction, avoid the teeth. McCree sighs, propping himself up on his elbows to watch, his eyes hooded and lips parted around ragged breaths. Hanzo glances up through his eyelashes to see McCree’s reactions, which only seems to make it worse as McCree drops his head back. He tries to roll up into Hanzo’s mouth, but Hanzo pins his hips with an arm across his stomach.

“Restrain yourself,” Hanzo chides gently, barely breaking stride.

“Darlin’, it ain’t my fault you’re so good at this--” McCree cuts off with a groan, and indeed seems to give up on speech entirely, devolving into pleased moans and gasps for more. Hanzo aches to be touched, himself, his jeans becoming painfully constricting from McCree’s reactions alone, but he resists in favor of giving McCree this one simple thing.

McCree barely manages to gasp out, “Darlin’, I’m gonna--” as a warning, and Hanzo backs off just as McCree peaks. He strokes him through it, until McCree swats at his hand, hips twitching with oversensitivity. As he comes down, gulping down air, he sits up and reaches for Hanzo, grabbing clumsily at his shoulders to bring him closer. “C’mere, what do you want? Can’t possibly compare after that, holy shit, but--”

“Anything,” Hanzo breathes, bumping hands with McCree as they simultaneously try to pry open his jeans. McCree manages to shove his hand under the waistband of his boxers, and a minute is all it takes for Hanzo to find his release, stifling his groan by burying his face in McCree’s shoulder.

McCree kisses his temple, still breathing heavily. “Good lord,” he says. “Ain’t no end to your talents, is there?”

Hanzo chuckles, shifting and reaching over the edge of the bed for one of their discarded shirts. “There is somewhere,” he says. “Although I do have many talents.”

“Humility ain’t one of ‘em, is it.” McCree laughs as Hanzo shoots him a halfhearted glare. “Not that you don’t deserve an ego. Ain’t never met someone so perfect.”

“I am hardly perfect.”

“Mm, not by someone else’s measure, maybe.” McCree waits until Hanzo has finished cleaning them both up before throwing his arm around him, dragging them both down to lay facing each other. “But you’re absolutely perfect to me.”

Of all things, this is what causes Hanzo’s face to flush with embarrassment. He tries to tuck his face into the pillow, but McCree chuckles as he does. “It’s true,” he insists. “Even fate would agree, right?” He sets his metal hand down on the bed between them, drawing attention to the thin red string looped around his smallest finger.

Hanzo huffs a laugh. “Perhaps so,” he agrees. “But it does not stop you from being an embarrassing, sentimental fool of a man.” He covers McCree’s hand with his own to soften the sting of his words, bringing their twin rings of scarlet together.

“That’s alright,” McCree murmurs. “I’ll just be embarrassin’ and sentimental for the both of us.” He leans up to kiss Hanzo’s forehead, lingering as he does. “I really like you. It’s worth it.”

“Ridiculous,” Hanzo mutters. He reaches back to undo his hair tie, ducking his chin as he does, so that he does not have to see the pleased, knowing grin on McCree’s face.

Hanzo sleeps through the night that night, unburdened by even a hint of a nightmare or his waking fears. He only wakes a few minutes before six the next morning, his body prepared for his alarm--and he only gets up long enough to turn the alarm off before tucking back into bed beside his softly-snoring soulmate.

 

\--

 

They are late to breakfast. They wake up in plenty of time to get to breakfast with the rest of the team, despite Hanzo’s attempts by stifling his alarm, but McCree insists that they cannot leave the bed without a certain amount of cuddling--which, of course, turns into morning sex within three minutes. Hanzo can’t find it within himself to complain too much.

They finally manage to dress and put themselves together to go meet the rest of the team somewhere around 7:15. By the time they arrive, everyone else is already gathered around the wide dining room table, broken off into clusters and conversing merrily. Reinhardt is apparently responsible for breakfast again, as he is in the kitchen with a comically small apron tied about his person, old music playing from a small stereo on the counter.

The fact that he and McCree come in together is indicative enough of the reason why they are late, but Hanzo manages to think that they are in the clear when Genji says, louder than necessary, “Greetings, brother. I’m surprised to see you up so late!”

Several faces turn immediately to regard the pair, knowing smirks upon most of them. “Genji,” Hanzo growls back, a warning that Genji laughs openly at.

McCree pulls his hat down over his eyes, looking just a bit bashful. “Now you knock that off,” he chuckles, moving into the kitchen. “Don’t gotta air out everyone else’s business like that.”

Genji rolls his eyes skyward, lifting his coffee cup to his mouth. “I have no idea what you could possibly mean,” he replies. He engages Zenyatta in conversation beside him before Hanzo can say anything further, although that doesn’t stop Hanzo from giving him a light smack across the back of his helmeted head in passing.

Mei looks up from her phone as Hanzo walks by, giving a small smile. “It is good to see you two are okay,” she says softly. “I told you it would be okay.”

“You were correct.” Hanzo catches sight of the name on Mei’s phone--Zarya’s, of course. “And how are things with Zarya? Still well?”

“Wonderful.” Mei bites her lip shyly, cradling her phone between both hands. “Actually, she said she might be coming to join Overwatch next week. She still has to make sure everything in Russia will be okay without her, but I’m still really excited.”

“Is that so. I am certain she will be just excited to see you.” Mei beams at this, and Hanzo allows himself to feel a little pride at the expression.

McCree, meanwhile, sets about his coffee-making routine, shoving a cup under the single-serve machine. He pulls down a cup and a teabag for Hanzo with a wink and croons along with the radio: “ _Ooh, loverboy, whatcha doin’ tonight_?”

“You actually know the words to this nonsense?” Hanzo asks with a raised brow.

“It is not nonsense!” Reinhardt bellows, turning around from the alarmingly tall pile of pancakes to which he is still contributing. “This is the classics!”

“Yeah, Hanzo, it’s the classics!” McCree laughs. He turns away from his coffee and sweeps Hanzo into a spin, a hand each on his hip and shoulder. “C’mon, loverboy.”

“What--” Against his will, Hanzo is pulled into a mockery of a dance, awkwardly swaying along with McCree’s steps. McCree laughs at the bewildered look on Hanzo’s face.

“Just humor me,” he says, drawing Hanzo closer. The hand on his shoulder moves to grab his hand instead, a more traditional dancing pose. He continues along with the song as he pulls Hanzo through the dance. “ _When I’m not with you, think of you always . . .”_

“For all intents and purposes, we live together.”

McCree keeps on through Hanzo’s amused protests, until the coffeemaker gives a beep and McCree decides that caffeine is more worth his attention. He bends down and plants a smacking kiss on Hanzo’s mouth before he lets go, laughing softly all the while.

“Ridiculous,” Hanzo mutters, moving back to the counter where his tea has been steeping. His thread changes angles sharply as McCree dances about the kitchen, fetching cream and sugar from various cupboards. Hanzo catches himself watching it, following McCree’s movements. The string is no longer a noose: merely an accessory that ties him to the man currently dancing around the industrial team kitchen.

Across the room, Genji looks back to him again. His smile is soft instead of mocking, and the glance that he flicks in McCree’s direction asks, _Sorted it out, then?_ He looks pleased at Hanzo’s answering nod.

“ _Everything’s alright, just hold on tight,”_ McCree continues on, swinging his hips as he stirs his coffee. Hanzo leans his elbows on the kitchen counter to look across the dining room, tea mug warm between his hands, the scent of it rising on the steam. “ _That’s because I’m a good old-fashioned lover boy . . .”_

Hanzo smiles as he listens to McCree sing, the chatter of the team a background accompaniment to his crooning voice, and sips his tea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reinhardt listens to a shitton of Queen and you can't convince me otherwise. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who's been following this story for the last couple months! I'm super humbled by the response this got. What was meant to be a little 5k drabble turned into a 3-chapter idea and then became a 7-chapter monstrosity, and it's been so much fun. I'm sad this one's done, but I already have more things to write. Thanks for sticking with me and being so wonderful. 
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr! Hti up commonly-nonsensical.tumblr.com for my main, or kerfufflewatch.tumblr.com for everything Overwatch and McHanzo, including writing excerpts and art and stuff!


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